


Journey Across The Dimensions

by CescaLR



Series: One Shots & One Shot Collections (non-prompted.) [2]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game), Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV), 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Bakugou Mitsuki's Bad Parenting, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M, One Shot Collection, look once something becomes recurring you should tag it; read warnings steo contained inside package
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:22:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26422582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: Snippets of various kinds.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Stiles Stilinski/Theo Raeken
Series: One Shots & One Shot Collections (non-prompted.) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1064720
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. 1: Life Is Strange, After The Storm.

**Author's Note:**

> I promise this won't end up with many tags, I kind of hate coming across those behemoths, also, 'ficlet collection' is there for exclusion.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It wasn't supposed to be like this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk, wrote this at 4 in the morning and have no idea where I was going with it... I'd been reading a lot of LIS fics with Prescott front and centre (after Max, ofc) so maybe it was another one of those types? 
> 
> Look i have no clue don't ask me

Max breathes, slowly, into the cool November air. It's colder this winter than she thought it would be, and perhaps after her extra week of September she had grown unnaturally accustomed to warm sun and a nice breeze; to see her breath cloud in front of her, billowing puffs of white, is almost surreal. 

Like everything else, since... 

Max looks down at the polaroid in her grasp, held tightly, unfeelingly behind the protective layer of fingerless knit gloves, because it's cold, but not cold enough, not yet. Max wants to wait until the chill in the air is biting into her skin, until people start asking if she's cold, until people start giving concerned glances and stating facts about the weather at her, Max wants to wait until then to bundle up, if only to extend...

It would be dramatic to say her suffering, but someone should be punished for Chloe's death. And she hadn't let it be Nathan Prescott, couldn't have, not with his voicemail running through her head, not with Chloe's words running through her head, not with the image of Rachel Amber and Nathan Prescott lying there imprinted on the backs of her eyes, not with her instinct to help, to try, to use her power so ingrained that she hadn't just been able to sit there, she'd stumbled back into herself, heard the commotion and stumbled out, and Chloe had scrammed and Nathan Prescott had threatened her as Max had mindlessly ambled out of the bathroom, and it hadn't had time to escalate, and a few hours later Chloe had been found dead in the Junkyard, a ricochet bullet from the gun she'd stolen from David buried in her gut. 

Chloe had died to save the town. As awful as he was, is Nathan Prescott not also a part of Arcadia Bay? 

Max knows she made a mistake. And with the polaroid in her grasp, a little blue butterfly, she could go back and fix it. What was the point? Nathan Prescott is still... for lack of a better term, broken. He's still Jefferson's underling. He hadn't had the same revelations as the last timeline. How much was he to blame? That was something Max dwelled on, because how could she not? These were her choices, and... she never had to live with any of them, so long as Chloe remained six-feet-under, and wasn't that the kicker? 

Max is a dead horse, and the timelines are beating her down. She knows this, can feel it in her bones. She can't keep doing this, can't keep making stupid choices to try and save people. 

Max shivers. She watches her breath condense in the air, steam, vapor, what she exhales being warmer than the space it's released into, or something. Max was never much of a science person.

She can go back; make Nathan face trial. But what would that accomplish? At this point, would he even try and implicate Jefferson? Would Sean Prescott try and protect his son? Or would he let him take all the blame, so as not to make the usage of his property seem suspicious as towards his own involvement? 

Max can't tell. And she could tell; she could go back, and she could check, and if it goes wrong, well, she can just do this again. Redundant and recursive, maybe, if she's got her thesaurus-ing correct, but... 

"Aww, hell, c'mon Max," Max mutters to herself, cajoling. "Make a decision already."

She should. She has to.

... But maybe not tonight. Max looks up, at the treeline, and doesn't spot any wild animals. No signs from the Bay. No warning, no guide. 

* * *

_From here, Idk what I was thinking. I remember vaguely something about Nathan from both timelines being involved in the Plot, 'cause he had that vison or whatever and some Powered people can't die because they're all needed to fix the town or some shit? and I was also thinking of making it a crossover with Oxenfree for the fun of it, but???????? I'm a blank. Don't write at four in the morning without an outline, my dudes._


	2. 2: Teen Wolf, Another Fucking Season Five AU, Dear God, I Need To Write Different Things.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As much as Scott didn't want to... Malia was right. They needed to talk; Stiles and him. Badly, desperately so.

_FIC START #1: Sort of part way through the fic's first chapter/only chapter; Malia and Scott, on the nature of people and Stiles._

* * *

"We give and we give until there's nothing left," She said, "And we dig deep and give some more, because that's what _you_ do and-" Malia shakes her head helplessly as Scott just stares. Malia lets out an explosive breath. "Because people like me and people like Stiles... we need people like you to show us how to be _good_. Because - we're not so great at doing that on our own." Malia pauses, looks over to Scott. "... People like you show people like us that there _is_ good in the world, that we can strive to be better and if that means giving more than we have, hollowing ourselves out for the cause then _we'll do it_ because people like me, like Stiles - we give our all and more than we have, even when it's too much, maybe even especially then, because we feel like we have things to atone for." 

Malia turned to Scott, properly, and he felt trapped under her gaze. 

"But not all people are the same, even when you have categories like this. Someone like Stiles, for example, thinks that they're inherently bad, and that they deserve the things that happen to them." The coyote's eyes are solemn, and far too old for the girl they belonged to. "And he bottles everything up and doesn't address it, and he pushes people away because he ' _knows_ ' they're going to leave anyway, and he's scared and guilty and-" 

Malia stopped herself, sighed.

"My point, I guess, is that Stiles... He's reached a kind of breaking point. You know, he stayed seated next to his broken down jeep overnight in the cold, clothes drenched... That night after your chat outside the vets?" She stepped forward, almost desperate now. "He -" here, she faltered, "He won't accept my acceptance and he let that wound fester and scab and scar and it wasn't nice, watching -" Malia hesitated, then ploughed on-" watching someone I /love/ break down and not being able to get through to them."

Malia stared across at Scott. None of what she'd said had been meant in an accusing way, he was sure, but the words still stung Scott nonetheless.

"He - he killed _someone_ , Lia." Scott responded in the only way he could - though he knew his tone sounded more defensive than righteous. Scott wasn't sure how long his resolve would hold, even knowing what he does, and... that scares him, what he'd let Stiles get away with given the chance. Maybe that has made him harsher than he should be - but Stiles killed Donovan _in cold blood._ Scott knows he could get past that, and it _terrifies_ him. "Did you ask?" Malia bluntly questions, probes him with her words and piercing eyes. "I didn't need to." Scott replied, tone darker than it ever would normally be. He hadn't had to, because suffice to say Stiles advancing on him - almost, almost threatening him - that was enough. Enough proof, enough...

Just enough. And the _smell;_ the guilt, the anger, the frustration. Stiles had been off for a while; he'd even told Scott that himself. Scott isn't sure why, now, he'd ignored it then. 

"So you have the account of someone who wasn't even present and nothing else?" Malia responded - allowed his reply to pass even if the pursing of her lips showed her distaste for it. "How do you know he wasn't there?" Scott asked instead.

"Because unlike you lot, I actually go over CCTV footage very now and again." Malia said dryly. "From what I could find, Theo wasn't there that night. Or, if he was, he didn't bother to get involved."

Scott blinked. This... wasn't exactly a game-changer, but it was...

Something.

"Alright. Say he only showed up last minute - his library card had been used not long after Stiles', according to Sheriff - That still means his story checks out." Scott pointed out.

Malia sighed. "Believe what you want to. But I've _tried_ , and Stiles wont let me get through to him. He's convinced himself that - well." Malia looked away, finally, and Scott felt like he could move again. "You... Your ideals are what he bases himself on, Scott. Sure, with a little more leeway regarding some rules, but a strict 'no killing' policy, even in self defence - or perhaps especially then, because he's hard on himself for not being able to deal with people who attack him as easily as we do, get them to stop without lethal force - well, he follows that. And the whole thing with Donovan... the straw that broke the camel's back, considering everything."

Scott looked over to Malia, who shrugged. "If he wanted you to know, he'd tell you. But he's too afraid of what you'd think of him."

Scott almost wants to shout that _its not his fault. It shouldn't be his responsibility_ , but this sort of thing is a two way street and Scott... He's not sure which of them has been lax lately, but one of them certainly must have for their relationship to have gotten so bad that Scott -

He's almost _scared_. Of his _best friend_. And what he might be - _is_ \- capable of.

"Just... Talk to him. At him. Listen. _Please_." Malia implored him, eyes bright and tone beseeching. "Try and find his point of view. If you can. If it doesn't work... Then... That's that, I guess." Malia looked saddened. Scott wholeheartedly understood why. He felt... at least very similar about the whole situation.

"Okay." Scott agreed. " I'll see if he'll let me try."

Scott wasn't about to do anything if he got any doors slammed in his face, but that's just one of the many ways this might go badly.

Scott's not a pessimist though. He'll try, at least, and his confirmation of this brings a brighter, lighter smile to Malia's face.

"Thank you," She says, sincerely. And Scott would point out that he's lost someone he loves too, but in a way, it is partially his fault. Stiles isn't blameless, but neither is Scott. That's important for him to remember.

It keeps him... grounded.

Malia hugs him, and Scott hugs back, soaks up the temporary warmth that counteracts the cool night air.

"I'll see you around." Malia says, and Scott's not surprised because he's not stupid. She's been missing school and Braeden's back in town; something is going on.

Scott doesn't ask, though. Again; it scares him, what he would let those he really cares about get away with if he wasn't so stubborn about his morals (for that very reason).

Malia pulls back, and Scott murmurs his own farewell - watches as she drives off in that new car of hers.

Scott sighs - yawns; its the kind of late that's actually just really early morning, and Scott debates on whether or not Stiles would be awake.

Oh, who was he kidding.

Scott got on his bike and revved the engine, didn't give himself a chance for his nerve to die down and sped off towards Stiles' home.

As much as Scott didn't want to... Malia was right. They needed to talk; Stiles and him. Badly, desperately so.

* * *

_Once again; I wrote this late at night a while ago, and I have approximately 0% understanding of where I was going with this or even what the context for it was. Damn._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't have many of these for now, but I'm sure they'll build up over time. This isn't where ideas go to die; this is where ideas go /if/ they die. I don't exactly want to just leave them on my hard drive, but they're not complete enough to justify an entire fic to themselves. So, here we are.


	3. 3: I Need To Stop Dawdling And Finish My Steo Fics God Damn It.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You want to come with me, don't you?" He accused, jabbing a finger in the other young adult's direction. "Fuck you, no, obviously."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now this one, I might actually continue. For now, it's resting here, safe, and archived. I need to finish at least one Steo fic before I can justify writing a new one, my dudes.

"Mieczysław."

Stiles tensed, eyes narrowing, as he ignored the vaguely pleased surprise he felt at hearing that pronounced properly, pronounced better than his dad ever could, pronounced like how he's heard it's supposed to be, how his mom used to say her father's name, full of grieved nostalgia - and Stiles is such a product of his family, he realises at this moment; 'Stiles' is paternal, 'Mieczysław' is maternal - nothing of his name is uniquely his, uniquely - well - _Stiles_.

"What the fuck did you just say?" Stiles demanded, turning towards the offender - Theo stood, smirk ever present, tugging at the corner of his mouth - and his eyes are blue, piercing, their depths and emotions therein unreadable.

"Your name," Theo said, smooth as silk, and all the more dangerous for it.

"Did your friends even know it?" Theo demanded, edges softened - but harsh regardless, if only for the content of the query. "Before the wild hunt? Did they even know your name? Know how to spell it, how to say it?"

"I don't use it," Stiles said. "Of course not."

"You never used it," Theo replied. "I still bothered, _mischief_."

Stiles rolled his eyes, sighed, tension leaving his frame. Theo was **mostly** declawed these days, and at the very least - he's never really hurt Stiles, not without Stiles having at least tried to hurt him first. **_Physically_** , that is. Donovan notwithstanding, because - well... either Stiles killed him like he did, or Theo would have jumped on in. But - well, emotionally... killing Scott and ruining Stiles' relationships, using his Dad, all that hurt a- _fucking_ -lot.

"What do you want?" Stiles said, less of a question, more of a statement. He doesn't really care, anymore. He's going back to Virginia in a week - thank god that Agent McAsshole deigned to smooth things over for him with the FBI, and that Stiles is good with words when he tries to be. But he is leaving again, and no, the reason has nothing to do with the fact that his relationship with Lydia lasted less than a month, or that Scott and Malia are together, or that he has nothing to do in Beacon anymore, having graduated, and there not being any supernatural shenanigans going on.

Stiles paused, then quickly spoke before Theo could, eyes narrowed. "You want to come with me, don't you?" He accused, jabbing a finger in the other young adult's direction. "Fuck you, **_no_** , obviously."

Theo just smiled, genuine. "And there you go," he said. "Figuring me out." Theo's smile dimmed.

 _"Why?"_ Stiles' eyes narrowed further. "Liam got sick of your bullshit? Scott tired of giving you second chances? Malia as angry as ever?"

"I don't have a house." Theo said, flatly, tone giving nothing away, face impassive and eyes hard, icy, mirror-like. "You can't pay rent on your own, not without having to sacrifice on a lot of freedoms. I can help with that. I know about the supernatural, and I'm a good liar, so if anything comes up I can help you come up with a cover. Additionally, you wont have to watch your back around your housemate because you don't know them"

"No, I'll only have to make sure there isn't a guy with super-strength and homicidal tendencies hiding behind the couch," Stiles said, dryly. " **No**."

"I'll pay you directly," Theo negotiated, arms folding against his chest. "And you wont have to worry about me hiding behind the couch. I'll stay out of your hair, If that's what it takes."

This wouldn't sway him - if it weren't for the debts he and his dad have had over the years, and how much of a headache those were. And - it's an internship. Not a degree, not an apprenticeship, or whatever. He doesn't get paid, but he doesn't have to pay - but he does have to sort out where he lives himself. And he was thinking about getting someone to help split the bills, maybe one of the other interns or something, but it's not like he'd made any friends before he'd fucked off to go help a fugitive. Now, he'd been right to do that, but a lot wouldn't see it that way, he was certain. Even with Agent smoothing things over -

Well, Stiles has lived in worse conditions. Having a mostly absent flatmate in Theo Raeken can't possibly be worse than Eichen House, right?

God, Stiles is so very stupid. And this is going to make everyone think Stiles has forgiven Theo - which he hasn't. Clearly. But... fuck it, _sure_. Theo probably chose the best time to ask this - Stiles is tired, recently broken-up, and leaving too soon to really change his mind, but not soon enough to say no on principle of it being too late. In the right timeframe for a rash decision, and Stiles hates being manipulated, but, well, at least Stiles knows how to deal with Theo. Clearly nobody else does, because he's just been left to his own devices and who fucking _knows_ what the man has been up to.

Stiles grimaced at the thought.

"Fine." Stiles sighed. "Sure. But I better never see you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I have any others, but since I found this one just now (or, rather, remembered it's existence) I'm likely at least 50% incorrect, so, we'll see when this gets updated.


	4. 4: True Love's Kiss Bullshit, aka I Never Finish My Steo Shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously, this is starting to get annoying. I need to finish a steo fic damnit!

"True love's kiss?" Theo said, eyebrow raised, arms folded. 

Scott nodded, miserably.

"Who's Stiles in love with, then?" Malia asked, brusquely, from her place on the armchair.

"It's not who Stiles is in love with," Lydia sighed, softly, expression pinched, a little pained but mostly just evidence of how awkward she found this whole situation. "It's who's in love with Stiles."

Malia deflated. "Oh," She said, and sank further into the cushions.

"Well," Lydia started, brushed some hair out of her face as a stalling tactic, then continued, "It's not me."

"No kidding," Theo said, "Two weeks. _Two weeks."_

Malia growled at him, and he held his hands up in mock surrender. "I'm just saying," He said, "But it's obviously not Lydia. And since you haven't already walked over to go wake him up, clearly you aren't one to talk."

Malia's blue eyes dimmed back to chocolate brown, and she sighed. "You're right," She said, begrudgingly.

"Well, we need someone to be in love with him," Scott said, agitated. "He can't be gone from the FBI for too long - and -"

"We need him to help plan out what we're going to do about the Witches?" Liam offered. Scott sighed, and nodded.

"This is all well and good," Peter chimed in, "Sitting around and accusing everyone of being in love with Stiles, and everything, I propose instead we simply... kill the witch. That _will_ break the curse."

"Shut up," Malia said, and he did.

"We aren't killing anyone," Scott said. "Why are you here?" Lydia asked.

"Curiosity," Peter said. He was a very strange man with incredibly convoluted motivations and a penchant for lying his ass off, though, so the truth of that statement could be anywhere from one-hundred-percent to a total lie to a truth that's also a coverup for something deeper and much more important. 

Scott sighed, and looked over at Stiles, lying unconscious on the couch.

_True love's kiss._

What were they supposed to do about _this?_

* * *

"I've told you all I know," Deaton said. "A witch's magic is tied to their lifeforce - if they die, then their magic dies with them. As that isn't an option, here, the inbuilt clauses of the spells cast are the only way to break them." 

Scott sighed. "I know," He said. "But... I don't - Malia tried," He said, awkwardly. "She told me, and that didn't do anything. And Lydia tried," Reluctantly, but she _did, "_ And that didn't do anything either. That's it. Those were the only two people who could - who _might_ have had a chance. Nobody else... feels that way about Stiles. Or, felt."

"See, that's the problem," Deaton said. "Past love - you need _current_ love. These clauses are always very specific. And some witches add hidden ones in that the books might not tell you - the more clauses, the more specific the way to break it becomes. And in some cases, they make the clause so that they themselves could break the spell - many witches fear death. It's the only thing that can easily stop them on all accounts. If the witch who did this spell is like most of the witches in the covens I've come across, they will likely have done the same for fear of being murdered to break the curse."

"So..." Scott sighed. "So we need to figure out which witch it was, and then find their other victims, and see what the pattern is?"

"Yes," Deaton nodded. "That's the only other way. If there is _for certain_ nobody else, and as killing them is off the table... there is no other way."

* * *

"True love's kiss isn't always _romantic,_ though," Lydia offered. "There are cases where it could be... platonic, or familial -"

"Witches have to be very specific in their clauses," Theo said. "It's the best way to make sure the spells are hard to break, and to entice you into making deals with their coven. It will be romantic love - this won't have been done at random. They'll have chosen Stiles as the target _because_ through observation they figured nobody to be in love with him."

"Why would they want -"

"They'd want us to leave them alone, right?" Malia said. "Let them do their magic without interference."

"And we _were,"_ Scott sighed, "Before they started cursing people."

"Covens have to make money somehow," Theo said. "Likely most of those curses were paid for."

"And this was a warning, probably," Lydia added. "To stop shoving ourselves into their business."

Malia sighed. 

"We need to do some recon," Theo said. "Figure out which witch it was."

Scott nodded. "Yeah," He said. "Deaton said most witches put a clause in so they can break it as well, in case the other clauses are almost impossible to do," Scott grimaced. "Like it is here. And, if we figure out which witch it was, we could get them to break it."

"How?" Malia asked. "Since we're not gonna kill them."

Scott grimaced, again. "I'm working on that," He said. 

* * *

Two days. It was Monday, now. Stiles got cursed Friday. He was laid out on his bed in his old room in the Sheriff's house, unconscious and totally still, looking almost dead except for the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, in and out, slowly and softly. He was getting a lot more rest now than he had in the past three or so years, Theo thought. 

Malia leaned back on the chair. "My turn," Theo said, gesturing. Malia glared at him. "Everyone else is busy," He said. Malia had come back from France as soon as she'd heard, unfortunately bringing Peter in tow. And so she was really - aside from Peter, who wasn't allowed anywhere near the Sheriff's house - was the only other person who could keep watch, just in case the witches decided to come steal him or something. It was the kind of paranoid Stiles would be, so in a way, Theo figured Scott mandating this was to put Stiles' worries to rest, even though Stiles wasn't aware enough to voice them. 

They just knew him well enough to guess. 

But as it stood, Malia couldn't keep watch 24/7. Even she had shit to do - Theo, on the other hand, was still... mostly adrift. Living out of his truck was no longer something he was doing, at least, but the thing was that Theo had been staying in _Stiles'_ apartment, in Virginia, because Stiles needed help with the rent and Theo neither was really wanted in Beacon Hills, nor really wanted to be there. 

If Theo went back without him, Stiles' new and shiny FBI acquaintances might get a tad suspicious. So, for now, Theo's staying in the spare room in the Stilinski's house. Luckily for him, the Sheriff is as always rarely home. 

And Theo's worked up a lot of sick days, over the past year or so. 

"You need to get something to eat, at least," Theo said. "Look, I've lived with him for a year. He's not dead yet, is he?"

Malia pressed her lips together. She'd never like him, and that was entirely fair. He'd shot her in the gut and left her for dead. And then murdered her _something,_ given her and Scott are - doing something. Theo doesn't really care to know about whether its official or not.

Malia got up and left. Theo heard the front door shut minutes later and her car pull out of the driveway, and so he was left alone. With an unconscious Stiles, of course, but that meant he might as well have been alone. 

It wasn't every day Stiles was calm, silent, relaxed, and asleep. In fact, that was a rarity - given everything, it's expected to be a rarity, but Theo figured it was probably nice to get some uninterrupted rest. Dreamless, endless sleep, or so the witch had said when she'd cursed him. And they _were_ a she, Theo was 90% certain, though the coven wasn't female-exclusive. It narrowed down their search, but not by much. 

At least the curse would keep him healthy. It was more like stasis than sleep, since he didn't have to eat or anything. Just lie there. Dead to the world and everything in it. 

Not everyone had tried their hand at waking Stiles up, yet, of course. Most people tended to know when they were 'in love' with someone. 

Most people. Sometimes it was harder to figure out your emotions, especially if you weren't very good with them. It took a long time for Theo to realise he _could_ care, and that in some aspects that he did, that he's capable of it and that he practises it.

But Love is a whole different beast entirely. 

* * *


	5. 3.5: Expanding upon the idea bc why not + soulmates bc they're fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the Anuke-Ite, Theo moves to Virginia. 
> 
> Into Stiles' apartment. 
> 
> It works. Sort of.
> 
> OR:
> 
> Stiles narrows his eyes at him, suspicious. “Is this flattery? What is this? What are you trying to accomplish?”
> 
> Theo shrugs and says, simply, honestly, “I just thought you should know,” He tilts his head. “That I meant it.”
> 
> [ AKA - here lies two murderous cockroaches, soulbound and stupid ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tryna wrestle my muse into submission. I will be creative goddamn it. 
> 
> Also procrastinating on Uni work! Not smart kids don't follow my example i have a mid-term assignment due in like three days help
> 
> Edit:
> 
> I only work on this when I'm procrastinating on UNI work. Here, have an updated version of the chapter. I'd re-read the whole thing, but most of the additions are after the snowed-in at the motel bit starts. Before that it's mainly corrections, minor additions to thoughts/dialogue, and altered sentences. Obviously if you haven't read it before, go ahead and ignore this edit A/N. Plus, I hope you enjoy :)
> 
> Also: Will continue to update until finished. I will establish this goddamn relationship, damn it.

The biggest problem about the whole soulmate business, Stiles has found over the years, is the catch:

You cannot lie to your soulmate.

Stiles is the obsessive sort, you see. In a world with soulmates – in this world he inhabits – he lies to everyone. All and sundry. Stiles says his favourite colour is what it isn’t, gives a different answer to every same question asked each time he hears it. Stiles has a reputation for it – hell, his therapist tried to diagnose him with some sort of compulsion thing.

But it’s not that.

Not _really._

Stiles lies to everyone as a test. He likes seeing the consideration, noting whether or not he got away with it. Stiles lies to see what counts as lying. You see, Stiles isn’t really sure what the rules are, for the whole thing. No-one is. Nobody, or at least, nobody who published the results, has ever done a proper analysis of the whole ordeal. Can you lie by omission? Stiles’ favourite method is this: He _loves_ sarcasm. Sarcasm is a way of telling the truth by the medium of lies. Sarcasm is misdirection. Do half truths count? He’s never been sure. When he met Scott, he told him, “My name’s Stiles,” And no warning bells went off, the words passed his lips with no trouble, and Scott had smiled and introduced himself in kind, while Theo took a puff of his inhaler.

Stiles has lied to everyone so much he’s found out ways to lie without lying, and in turn, he’s forgotten what counts. He’s not entirely when he’s telling the entire truth, anymore. So, Stiles has always figured – this is why nobody’s ever done a study. You just get… confused. Everything twists right back around to itself:

You can’t lie to your soulmate. But you _can_ lie to yourself.

So here’s the question –

Has Stiles told any one particular person the truth, and nothing but the truth… and not realised he wasn’t lying through his teeth?

* * *

Lydia Martin is the smartest, coolest girl, a year older than everyone thanks to the date of her birth, and that only makes her cooler. She’s pretty, and a little ditzy, but he can see past the wide-eyed confused smile to the sharpness underneath. Stiles thinks he admires that most about her – her ability to hide in plain sight. She’s a very, very capable liar.

He finds her once, outside in the playground, missing her usual crowd of followers – friends, he supposes. He’s not sure he’d call them that. They’re not like Heather and he are. They just do what she does and what she wants without question, and they gush about her new toys, take turns on a DS she never plays with herself.

Her parents are stood, on the other side of the fence, in the car park. At eight, nearly nine, Stiles knows the expressions on their faces well enough. He saw them on Melissa and Agent a lot, before Agent scarpered after he pushed Scott down the stairs.

They’re arguing. About Lydia, Stiles thinks, because he knows families, and parents fight about their kids a lot. Well, except Heather’s parents. It’s sort of suspicious. Stiles thinks they probably argue in the basement, away from view. Sometimes, adults do that, but they don’t always remember to. See, Stiles isn’t stupid. If he wants to talk to someone about heavy stuff, he makes sure there’s no-one eavesdropping. After all, he’s been the eavesdropper on many occasions, so he knows it happens.

But the _point_ is that Lydia looks a little sad, and a little unlike herself, and Stiles speaks to her, and for the first time she doesn’t pretend not to hear. Well, Stiles figures she’s pretending, most times, but there’s always the chance that she genuinely can’t, over the raucous noise of her many shadows. Lydia sometimes looks like she’s listening to things Stiles can’t hear, like she’s lost in thought. This is one of those times, but when she sees him, she doesn’t sneer. She just looks at him, blankly, then sighs, put-upon.

“Go away,” Lydia says, mulishly, and kicks the concrete with the back of her heel. Stiles drops onto the ledge on her left. “Your parents don’t look happy,” Stiles says. He’d tried to be honest with her back then, because – like he’d said – you can lie to yourself. For a long time, for _too_ long, really, Stiles had wanted Lydia to be his soulmate.

She wasn’t, though. And that was a good thing. In a lot of ways, they weren’t very compatible people. And Stiles has seen the horror stories of a match gone wrong.

Lydia kicks the concrete again. “What do you want?” She snipes. Stiles kicks the concrete, too, a mimicking motion. He shrugs. “I zoned out in math,” He said. “What was Miss J saying about fractions?” This is a lie. It is proof enough that they are not soulmates, but children aren’t known for being introspective. Stiles hadn’t thought of it as a lie – he’d thought of it as a kindness.

Lydia blinks, and then something passes behind her eyes, cautious. “How would I know?” She asks. She kicks the concrete again, so Stiles does too. “Because you’re the smartest person in Beacon Hills,” Stiles says. “You know everything.”

Lydia scowls at him. “Nobody knows everything.” She says.

“Well, no,” He agrees. “But you know math. You got 98% on the last test, because you threw a couple questions.”

Lydia’s scowl deepens. “No I didn’t,” She denies, and she gets up and leaves, and on the next few tests she scores 70% or below, but no less than 60.

Hiding, Stiles thinks, is not something he’s impressed by, anymore.

* * *

It would have been nice, Stiles had thought for a long time, if Scott were his soulmate. Easy, at least. Stiles so rarely got along with people wholeheartedly – Heather had been a good friend, Theo had been… he’d _been,_ and then he’d _left –_ and…

That was it.

All told, a sad line-up.

But Stiles _did_ get along with people well enough. He was less quiet than Scott. Stiles tended to compensate for his ‘Social Anxiety’ by being the loudest person in the room. If he said whatever came to mind without thinking, then he couldn’t worry himself to death about it. And there had been enough death in Beacon Hills without adding himself to the list.

That was a thought he’d had at the ripe old age of eleven, Stiles thinks wryly. Just before his mother died. Beacon Hills was always a death trap – the supernatural had nothing to do with it, really. That aspect just brought it all to the forefront.

But yes.

Stiles had wanted Scott to be his soulmate, on occasion. Just a sort of ‘that’d at least be easy’ kind of wistfulness. Stiles lied too much in ways that technically counted as truth for him to know, exactly, whether or not any one individual was his soulmate. And there was the occasional person he met that he’d never bothered lying to, because he spoke to them once in the corner shop, saying ‘sorry’ when he banged into them or what have you. Stiles thinks it’s a heavily unreliable method of finding your ‘one true love’. Lying doesn’t have to be direct. Saying the sky is green when it’s actually blue is a lie. Not telling someone you broke their vase and letting them come to incorrect conclusions is also a lie.

But Stiles tries not to lie to Scott, all the same. Or, tried, rather, for a long time. A bit like with Lydia. If you worked hard enough for something, it should be a fruitful endeavour, right? But it was dumb. The _whole thing_ was dumb.

And it wasn’t like Stiles was _gay,_ or anything, it wasn’t like his dad was _stupid_ and _absent_ and a workaholic alcoholic who only _stopped_ because they threatened to stop him from doing his job and he didn’t have to stop, just slow down, and he still drank. And Stiles still made him salads every day. And Stiles let him complain about it, because Stiles had never wanted to say to his face that he’d nearly lost him once, and he’s not letting it happen again, because then they’d have to acknowledge that his dad wasn’t really there when it mattered.

When it mattered – every time it mattered – Stiles was alone. Except. Once. Once Scott was there.

And maybe that was why. Stiles got a bit obsessive, sometimes. Easily attached. Having a thing for your best friend isn’t uncommon.

Having it be unrequited isn’t, either.

Stiles isn’t lying when he tells Scott he finds him attractive, isn’t joking when he says “Your ass is fine,” Even though Scott probably thinks the first was a joke and the latter was simply to console his worries about lying, because Scott, bless his golden soul, really doesn’t enjoy the activity.

That’s another thing.

Scott doesn’t really lie. So, Scott doesn’t really lie to Stiles. And soulmates can’t lie to each other.

Therefore, another aspect, Stiles supposed, was false hope. False hope that Allison dashed, and Kira crushed, of course. And Allison wasn’t **the one** , because of course not.

Those two lied to each other _all the time._

But in young love, Stiles had figured, at the time, it didn’t matter if destiny linked you together or not.

He found that out himself. In due course.

* * *

Malia Tate was Stiles’ first girlfriend. Not his first anything, by a long shot – his first ‘maybe’ was Heather, then Cora, he kissed Caitlin at a rave, and he had cared for Lydia, beneath the obsessive pedestal he’d put her on.

But she was his first love. Proper, _actual_ love, and Stiles thought – if the whole fucking soulmate _bullshit_ wasn’t real, then maybe they could have been.

He lies to her a lot. Its not fair on either of them, but he does it. She lies to him, too, because she’s blunt and tactless but not entirely honest. Malia is careful in what she admits freely. She admits care. She admits a certain kind of fear of herself; of what she could be. She admits nothing about her plans for her mother, and Stiles, likewise, admits similar things. Nothing about Donovan.

They were a little too alike, Stiles thought, looking back on it all. But then, that doesn’t make much sense, now, does it?

Soulmates are often very similar people. But maybe, in this case, they were similar in the wrong ways.

It was good, though. They had it good, while it lasted, before it all fell apart. Stiles liked to think so, at least, and Malia didn’t look regretful when they reminisced about those times over a few bottles of beer at thanksgiving dinner, a year later, and in the years following that.

* * *

Stiles gets very good at lying to werewolves. It’s not hard to learn certain things – steadying your heartbeat isn’t exactly simple, but Stiles needs the comfort the ability to lie gives him. He’s not got much else. These people could tear him limb from limb without breaking a sweat, and if Stiles punched them, he’d get nothing but broken fingers and a temporarily broken nose for his trouble. And _then_ he’d be torn limb from limb.

So, he gets good at lying to werewolves. It makes Stiles better at lying to normal people, too. Mundane lying kind of loses its charm, but there’s still that little thrill he’s sure will never leave him, when he gets away with total bullshit.

Stiles has always been weird. This he admits freely. When his dad says he’s never trusted a word that’s come out of Stiles’ mouth since he learned to talk, Stiles absorbs the sentence, rolls it around in his head for a moment, and then decides he has to take it as a compliment, or he’ll have to add it to the other pile, with things that should be jokes (or not, really, at all humorous) but his brain won’t let him take them that way. ‘Trust you?’, ‘Scott, I trust’, ‘Thank you, son I should have had,’ among other things. Little, niggling things. Straight As with no behavioural issues.

Seventh circle of hell. That’s where Stiles belongs. Or further down, he considered, when he had poured his dad more whiskey for information, used the man’s patterns against him. Used his own father’s addiction to trick him into giving Stiles information.

And Stiles had needed that information.

But that doesn’t mean anything, anyway, because Stiles is a terrible person, he knows it. He hadn’t lied to Danny about that – it was a joke, in so far as it wasn’t one. Still. Stiles doesn’t regret what he did – he’d had no other choice, no other option at the time. He doesn’t begrudge his sixteen-year-old self for a few lousy mistakes.

But he does begrudge himself for a lot of other things. And those things should cast him down far enough that nobody could ever find him.

* * *

Of course, as these things always go, he ends up playing himself, in the end.

One word, “Good,” slips out of his mouth before he can stop it.

And he hates every second of it.

You can’t lie to your soulmate. But you can lie to yourself. Peter was right about that, at least. Stiles does it all the time.

* * *

It’s strange, Stiles considers. Being back in the world again. And by the world he means – normality. After being absconded away from reality and then a fucking _war_ starting up almost immediately after… it’s strange. To just be in Virginia, an FBI intern, renting out an apartment and occasionally video-calling his friends. Malia is in France. Lydia went to MIT. Scott… well, he got a place at UC Davis, but he’s done that whole ‘referral’ thing. He’s staying in BH for a year longer, and Stiles doesn’t agree, doesn’t think it’s a good idea, but it’s Scott’s choice. They’re adults, now, and it’s not like it’s the end of the world if Scott doesn’t go to college until next September.

There is, of course, one small problem. And it is surprising that it is small, though Stiles admits freely it’s only small because the problem is rarely around.

That problem being Theo Raeken, who technically pays half the rent. Technically, because half the rent payment appears in Stiles’ bank monthly, a regular transaction, and a plate Stiles couldn’t be bothered to clean or a mug he couldn’t be bothered to rinse at like two in the morning are neatly packed away in the cupboards come dawn. Sometimes the bathroom is in use when Stiles gets back from the FBI, but Stiles goes into his room to change, hears the fire escape window being opened, and once he’s back out again the place is empty.

Stiles had told Theo he ‘better not see much of his sociopathic ass’ and true to his word, Theo made himself scarce. Most of the time.

But here they were, standing awkwardly on opposite sides of the main room. The kitchen/living space were all one thing, and it was pretty small. Definitely not enough for two people at the same time, but thankfully neither were really here at the same time, so it didn’t matter much. Usually.

But here they were.

“And here I was thinking you’d died,” Stiles says, for lack of anything else to say. It’s sarcasm. Not a lie. Just a joke, really. Stiles hadn’t thought he was dead. If he was honest, he didn’t think much could kill Theo – the guy was like a cockroach, or something. If hell wasn’t enough, then what would be?

It’s mostly awkward, Stiles admits, because Theo’s the only one who hasn’t got a few fuzzy months of weird memories and a sort of double life in his head. Well, except for Peter, because he doesn’t count, because he’s _Peter,_ and additionally he was also Taken. That’s the main problem that the Wild Hunt left Stiles with; he’d been erased from a lot of events, and then unceremoniously shoved back in. Sometimes, people still forgot what he was and wasn’t there for. Stiles has to remind Scott they hadn’t known each other from birth, occasionally. Lydia keeps forgetting if they ever dated, before those disastrous two weeks, in a sort of round-about way that involves one too many memories of things that could be considered romantic, if you looked at them the wrong way, like her kissing him during that panic attack, or Stiles’ shitty behaviour when they were sixteen. Dancing at the winter formal. Stuff like that. And then there’s Malia. It’s _all_ a sore subject, for them both – so they don’t really talk about it.

It’s all awkward. But Theo’s the only one who doesn’t stumble over memories around him. It wouldn’t be so much of an issue, if he hadn’t been in Hell, Stiles supposes. If he hadn’t, he’d have lost memories with everyone else. The only things he’d have had a problem with would have been minimal, really. A few years in childhood. A few months at eighteen. Easier to replace than Scott’s memory, or Lydia’s, or his dad’s. But maybe not. If he thinks about it, he’d not known Malia all that long – hell, he’s known Theo for longer. He’s known Liam for longer. He knew Alison for longer, at the time, he thinks, but then, the timeline gets all messed up in his head, sometimes. He forgets Allison never made it to eighteen. He forgets what he remembers and what the nogitsune did, sometimes, but those memories have always been blurry, in the sense that the boundaries for them were wholly non-existent. If Stiles thinks about it enough – and he won’t ever do it, but if he _did –_ he’s sure he could bring up Corporal Rhys’ memories of the camp, of poetry, of other things. Other very awkward things, hence partly why he’s never tried.

But that’s all off topic, isn’t it? Distraction. Stiles is good at distraction. Misdirection. It’s his M.O., if you think about it.

Ignore a problem until it eventually just goes away on its own.

Stiles can’t ignore this problem. Hasn’t ever really been able to. Theo’s not the sort of thing that’s ignorable.

“Still in one piece,” Theo agrees. “You’re back early.”

He is. Stiles didn’t have anything to work on in the library, and he was hungry, and he actually had no idea when Theo was or wasn’t going to come back here, so Stiles had mostly just been hoping he wouldn’t be present. Maybe – or, most likely, given what Theo just said – Theo had his schedule worked around Stiles’. He was here when Stiles wasn’t. Timed out to the second.

It’s kind of considerate, in a weird way. Respectful of Stiles’ wishes for this arrangement to be barely, if at all, noticeable.

“Ran out of things that needed doing,” Stiles says.

“Oh,” Theo glances at the kitchen, which is really a couple counters, a fridge-freezer, an oven and an electric hob against one wall, with a couple overhead cabinets just kind of there for posterity’s sake. Not really a kitchen. More of a kitchenette. At least they had a sink. They’d had to provide the oven.

“Knock yourself out,” Stiles says, then drops onto the couch and turns on the TV. They don’t pay for channels or anything like that – Stiles just boots up his Xbox and grabs a random DVD out of the ‘coffee table’ (a cheap chest because they needed the storage but there wasn’t space for a shelf or anything like that) then puts it on, something to give him reason to ignore the other young adult in the apartment.

Stiles grimaced at the screen. The memory of how this even happened in the first place – technically sharing a two-bed apartment with Theo Raeken, of all people, rises unbidden to the surface of his mind.

"Mieczysław."

Stiles had tensed, eyes narrowing.

"What the fuck did you just say?" Stiles had demanded, turning towards the offender - Theo was stood, smirk ever present, tugging at the corner of his mouth - and his eyes were piercing, their depths and emotions therein unreadable.

"Your name," Theo had said, smooth as silk, and all the more dangerous for it.

"Did your friends even know it?" Came next, a demand with the edges softened - but harsh regardless, if only for the content of the query. "Before the wild hunt? Did they even know your name? Know how to spell it, how to say it?"

"I don't use it," Stiles had said. "Of course not."

"You never used it," Came Theo's response. "I still bothered, _mischief_."

Following that, Stiles had rolled his eyes with a sigh, tension leaving his frame. Theo was **mostly** declawed these days, and at the very least - he's never really hurt Stiles, not without Stiles having at least tried to hurt him first. **_Physically_** , that is. Stiles should be on the lookout for emotional blows, but he didn’t have to be ready for a full out fistfight.

"What do you want?" Stiles had said, less of a question, more of a statement. He… hadn’t really cared, anymore, at that point. It was just before he was to return to Virginia, after the whole Anuke-Ite business was sorted out.

Stiles had paused, then spoken quickly before Theo could, eyes narrowed. "You want to come with me, don't you?" He had accused, jabbing a finger in the other young adult's direction. "Fuck you, **_no_** , obviously."

A genuine smile had spread across Theo's face in response. "And there you go, figuring me out." Alongside the words being spoken, Theo's smile had dimmed.

 _"Why?"_ Stiles' eyes narrowed further. "Liam get sick of your bullshit? Scott tired of giving you second chances? Malia as angry as ever?"

"I don't have a house." Theo had said, flatly, tone giving nothing away, face impassive and eyes hard, icy, mirror-like. "You can't pay rent on your own, not without having to sacrifice on a lot of freedoms. I can help with that. I know about the supernatural, and I'm a good liar, so if anything comes up, I can help you come up with a cover. Additionally, you won’t have to watch your back around your housemate because you don't know them."

"No, I'll only have to make sure there isn't a guy with super-strength and homicidal tendencies hiding behind the couch," Stiles had said, dryly. Sarcastically. " **No**."

"I'll pay you directly," Theo had negotiated, arms folding against his chest. "And you won’t have to worry about me hiding behind the couch. I'll stay out of your hair, if that's what it takes." There had been the lightest hint of humour to his tone; Theo had always found Stiles funny, he reflects, ever since they were kids. Looking back, it's a strange constant, given everything else. And doesn't speak volumes of Stiles' sense of humour, if this murderous bastard finds him _funny._

But anyway.

This wouldn't have swayed him - if it weren't for the debts he and his dad have had over the years, and how much of a headache those were. And - it's an internship. Not a degree, not an apprenticeship, or whatever. He doesn't get paid, but he doesn't have to pay - but he does have to sort out where he lives himself. And he had been thinking about getting someone to help split the bills, maybe one of the other interns or something, but it's not like he'd made any friends before he'd fucked off to go help a fugitive. Now, he'd been right to do that, but a lot wouldn't see it that way, he was certain. Even with Agent smoothing things over -

Well, the thought process had been - Stiles has lived in worse conditions. Having a mostly absent flatmate in Theo Raeken can't possibly be worse than Eichen House, right?

God, Stiles was so very stupid. And this did end up making everyone think Stiles had forgiven Theo – which wasn’t true, exactly. Stiles wasn’t sure you _could_ forgive what Theo had done, after all. But... fuck it, _sure_. Theo probably chose the best time to ask this - Stiles had been tired, recently broken-up, and leaving too soon to really change his mind, but not soon enough to say no on principle of it being too late. In the right timeframe for a rash decision, and Stiles had always hated being manipulated, but, well, at least Stiles knows how to deal with Theo. _Clearly_ nobody else did, because he'd just been left to his own devices. Guy could have been doing anything. Anything at all.

Stiles remembers having grimaced at the thought.

"Fine." Stiles had acquiesced. "Sure. But I better never see you."

And that had been that. And – he’s said it already, but – true to the terms, Stiles has seen very little of Theo.

The thing is, the thing that’s most frustrating – the thing that was always the most frustrating thing about Theo, was that Stiles never really hated the guy. Didn’t like him one whit, but… didn’t hate him, either. It wasn’t that there wasn’t good reason to; he was an asshole and a murderer, and he’d done a lot of bullshit to all of them. But he just… couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Maybe it was the nostalgia. Stiles’ childhood hadn’t exactly been idyllic, but it had been, at times, easier. Skateboarding around Beacon Hills with Theo Raeken hadn’t hurt. Neither had little league. Things had been simpler, when they were all kids. Stiles doesn’t think he’ll ever ask – but he wonders how much of the time they’d spent together, when they were kids, had been while Theo knew the Doctors. Had to be some of it – and it cleared a few things up, now. Why there’d been no contact after his family moved, because his family hadn’t moved, had they? They’d been killed, probably, and Theo had been dragged along with the Doctors for a decade. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

Not for the first time, this train of thought makes Stiles wonder just how many people Theo’s killed, over the years. Josh could _not_ have been the first. Not with how easily he did it.

Stiles sighs.

It was what it was, he supposes. And it doesn’t matter anymore, does it?

* * *

Time does not heal all wounds, though Stiles at least wishes it could heal a few.

He wakes up with a start, a scream in the back of his throat that never, thankfully, made it past his lips. His breathing is quick, and his brow is sweaty and his shirt is soaked through, his covers tangled around his legs. Stiles pushes himself free, swings his legs off the side of the bed, pulls a face and roughly discards his t-shirt, chucks it in the vague direction of the laundry basket.

Stiles rubs at his eyes. Two in the morning.

It doesn’t happen as often as it used to, of course, but Stiles has always had nightmares for as long as he can remember. People talk about stupid dreams, pleasant dreams – Stiles is just happy when he closes his eyes and opens them to morning sun streaming in through the blinds. If anything happens between, it’s never good. When he was with Malia, it helped, her curled up against his back, warm and solid. He didn’t do anything other than fall into a deep sleep, wake up when his alarm blared at seven. He’d only been with Lydia for two weeks, so they’d never actually had a chance to sleep in the same bed – Stiles is honestly glad of that. He doesn’t think her presence would have helped, and not because he doesn’t trust her, or he doesn’t love her. It just doesn’t work like that. It’s not the right… the right sort of trust, or the right sort of love. And, right doesn’t mean the kind they feel for each other is wrong in any way – it’s just platonic. And as it turns out, Stiles’ sleeping patterns are aided by… relationships that don’t fall under that category. And he doesn’t mean familial, though that can help calm him down after he’s woken up, if he needs it.

He doesn’t often. Waking up screaming is a rare enough occurrence these days, but he keeps a glass of water on his bed stand, just in case. Stiles picks it up now, takes a sip and considers the wall across from him. Blank. White. Plain. He should put up some posters – it looks kind of… prison-cell ish in here. Sort of reminds him of Eichen House. It’s just that – Stiles has been avoiding being here as much as is possible. He hasn’t really paid attention to the décor.

Stiles thinks maybe he’s expecting to have to dash off again at a moment’s notice. Life may have returned to normality, now, but Stiles has found he’s unused to it.

* * *

It’s eight. They’re out of food in the cupboards and the fridge, and they could either wait half-an-hour for takeout or go to the 24-hour diner at the end of the street, so Stiles puts his coat back on, turns around, and walks back out the door he just came in, FBI intern uniform plus ID lanyard and all. He’s hungry, sue him. Theo’s outfit of choice today is vaguely preppy. He looks different, these days, since the sword sent him to hell. His hair’s darker, a little longer. He looks paler, from a combination of darker hair and a lack of sun for three months. He reminds Stiles a little of himself, post-nogitsune, at least physically speaking, and it’s a sort of vaguely uncomfortable parallel. Stiles pushes it to the back of his mind.

“I was wondering,” Theo says, “How on _earth_ you’re doing an FBI internship.”

“Uh, what?” Stiles blinks, processes, then shrugs. “Agent McAsshole pulled some strings,” Stiles told him, shrugging again. “Why?”

“Because you don’t go to or have been to college,” Theo glances at him, askance. “Which from what I’ve seen online…”

Stiles laughs. “Yeah,” He says. “Like I said. Strings were pulled.”

Theo inclines his head. The diner isn’t new or old, really, renovated in the eighties, built in the fifties. It’s open all day and the food is fine and it’s most importantly _cheap,_ so it’s good if you forget to do the shopping. Stiles doesn’t normally – he’s used to doing it at home, anyway – but sometimes he’s busy with something, it slips his mind, and he ends up surviving on pills, water, and vending machines for two days. Stiles is pretty sure Theo just mostly eats ready meals and sandwiches. Stiles imagines the Doctors having a kitchen, cooking up pancakes and bacon for breakfast, then has to laugh at the absurdity of the image, mentally. Only mentally, because he doesn’t want to explain aloud where the laughter’s coming from – Stiles has at least evolved somewhat from mocking Isaac’s childhood. He’s still an asshole, but he’d at least shake his head in vague disappointment at his seventeen-year-old self.

The _point_ is that – Theo probably knows very little about cooking. Probably. It’s possible he knows enough to get by, since the fire alarm’s never gone off in their apartment. Though it _has_ gone off in their building. That was an annoying evening.

* * *

Stiles was startled awake by the blaring sound of an alarm. He flailed out of the covers and nearly fell off the bed, while his door was flung open. “Fire in the building,” Theo said, as Stiles scrambled to his feet. “Right,” Stiles said, “ _Great,”_ He continued, “Just _perfect,”_ And the two of them made their way down the fire-escape. There was smoke coming from one of the windows on the other side of the building, Stiles could see.

“Nobody’s hurt,” Theo said. “Electrical fire, though.”

“ _Great,”_ Stiles repeated, grimacing at the bite in the air. He’s pretty glad, at that moment, he sleeps fully dressed.

Theo, it appears, does not. Gym shorts, at least, but still – no top. It’s a cold night, and some idiot’s made it so they have to stand around in the dark, freezing their collective asses off. Stiles glowers at the window the smoke is emanating from and commiserates mentally with the other complaining residents.

“Dumbass,” Stiles says, frankly. Theo smiles. Weirdly, like he does, sometimes. Stiles sits down on a bench, already frustrated and sort of bored, still very tired and slightly disoriented. Theo takes a seat beside him. It takes a while for the fire to get dealt with, and Theo gets a blanket foisted onto him by a paramedic, which is amusing. He’s a chimera, and while being supernatural doesn’t make him immune to frostbite or whatever, it makes him heal quicker and it makes him less likely to be in danger of a low temperature. Stiles crosses his legs on the bench underneath himself, leans his forearms on his knees, hunches slightly for warmth. “I really don’t need it,” Theo sighs, as the paramedic walks off. And it’s true. But still. “Gotta keep up appearances,” Stiles says. “Can’t explain why frostbite won’t make you lose your fingers.”

Theo nods, absently. “Still,” He says. “Someone else could use it, couldn’t they?”

Stiles knows, at least vaguely, that Theo has been ‘trying’, according to a few sources. Those sources being the kids, so Stiles takes it all with a grain of salt. Still.

“Yeah,” He says. The cold is starting to get to him – Stiles has never been one for winter, really. Better at it than Scott ever was, and certainly more so than Lydia, but it’s not exactly his favourite season, and that’s living in California. He’s not yet used to Virginia’s weather. He shivers, slightly, and scowls mentally, forces his body still and silent, tightens his jaw in case it suddenly decides it wants to start chattering.

It rained yesterday. The wood of the bench is ever so slightly damp. Stiles tests it with his fingers, presses into the planks, and there’s just a little give. It’s an old bench, he thinks, possibly older than the block. He wonders if this used to be a park, or something.

Theo makes a noise of consideration, then shrugs off the blanket and drops it on Stiles.

“Oi,” Stiles says, muffled, and shoves it down so it rests around his shoulders. “The fuck?”

“You’re cold,” Theo says, simply. “It’s not like _I_ need it.”

“Fine,” Stiles says. It takes a little while longer, long enough that some people leave to go stay elsewhere for the night, or to get some food or whatever the fuck they’re doing, for the fire to get sorted out. Not too much damage was dealt, apparently, and nobody was injured, but the wiring in the building’s going to have to be checked, which is great. They’ll be kicked out for a day (or, if they’re unlucky, the whole weekend) while the building’s being checked, but promises are being made about being able to sleep in their apartments and yadda yadda. Stiles doesn’t believe that shit for one second, but he’ll deal with that problem when it occurs.

The blankets get collected, and Stiles gets an annoyed look from the collector, which is completely unfair, but whatever.

* * *

Much as expected, the ‘inspection’ keeps them locked out of the building for a few days. Luckily, it’s the weekend. Unluckily, it’s the weekend, and finding a decent enough, reasonably priced hotel is not a pleasant experience. Cheapest they find available for three nights in a row on such short notice is 84 a night, two singles in a ridiculously cramped room, but that’s fine. Theo has definitely slept in worse places, and Stiles has never been particularly picky.

He’d prefer if the beds weren’t literally like an inch apart, though. Seriously, who did the layout of this room? It was like a converted airing cupboard or something. Very thin, kind of long. Stiles was uncertain about why they didn’t just make it a single, or stick a bunk in here.

Stiles drops onto the closest bed, exhausted, his back to the wall. Stupid fucking electrical fires and paranoid landlords.

Theo discards his t-shirt and gets under the covers of his bed, lies on his back. It doesn’t take long for Stiles to mimic the posture – he generally has to try out a few resting positions before Stiles finds one that he can fall asleep in. The ceiling is patterned, by the looks of it – Stiles doesn’t know what it’s called, and he supposes it’s not ‘patterned’ – more… ‘textured’ would be the right word. The lamp on the windowsill between the two beds casts shadows in the bumps, which Stiles’ eyes lazily track, as if searching for some kind of connection, like constellations in the stars.

It’s weird, Stiles decides, that Theo is literally _right there._ It’s been a… long time, really, since Stiles slept in the same room as someone else. Hearing another person’s breathing has gotten strange. This particular person makes it… sort of uncomfortable.

Stiles lets out a slow, calm breath, almost a sigh. The ceiling looks the same, no matter how many times his gaze passes over it. The sounds outside are loud – the window doesn’t appear to be double-glazed. It’s kind of cold in the room, though at least warmer than outside, and the mattress has springs digging into Stiles’ back. The sheets might as well be made of sandpaper.

Stiles grimaces.

Alright, maybe he is a bit picky. He couldn’t sleep at Eichen, either, and at least the beds there were _sort of_ comfortable. Here? He trusts Theo less than Oliver. At least Oliver was strapped down to the bed.

But Stiles _is_ exhausted, it _is_ like four in the morning on a Saturday, and he knows it’s not a good idea to go without sleep. So he closes his eyes, rolls onto his side, back to the wall, and ignores Theo as much as he can. It works, sort of. He gets a few fitful hours of sleep.

He wakes up before Theo does. Probably, unless Theo’s good at pretending to be asleep. Theo looks different unconscious – most people do. Expression changes facial features, can make them sharper or more twisted; sleep softens rough edges, mostly, unless your head is an unpleasant place to be. The tension that had been in Theo’s frame is lessened. His eyes twitch behind their lids. His brow is smooth, no furrows, no creases. Mouth closed; breath quietly being taken through his nose.

Turns out Theo doesn’t snore, Stiles catalogues. Theo’s a still, quiet sleeper. Stiles isn’t sure if he’d have expected anything else, but then it’s not like he’d put any thought into what he would have expected, because why would he do that?

Why is he - he’s already done the creepy stalker routine – he doesn’t need to re-tread that path but without the same, perfectly valid, reasons. Ugh. Fucking _Theo._

Stiles flops onto his back, then sighs, and sits up. He drags himself off the end of the bed, then roots around in his bag for the toothbrush and toothpaste he'd collected. There is a bathroom, though it’s a very tight squeeze, and he makes his usage of it quick. He swaps with Theo, who has by this point woken up, and quickly changes as Theo lingers in the bathroom for longer than Stiles had.

It’s always a little weird, Stiles finds, when he catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror. There are things he expects to see, but doesn’t. A scar across his abdomen, for example. His fingers tap on the unblemished skin, through his hoodie. No evidence, no crime.

At least the scar on his shoulder remains exactly where it should be.

Stiles finishes up lacing his trainers when Theo exits. He grabs his phone, his wallet, and leaves, fully expecting Theo to be able to track where he went once he’s done.

Stiles is kind of hungry, and the 24-hour diner on the apartment block’s street should be good for something, at least.

* * *

It’s much warmer inside the diner than it had been outside, but that’s night-time in winter, Stiles has found. The waitress is a nice lady, friendly, with a bubble-gum-pink smile and the hair to match. She looks just a year or so their senior, and she’s taking the job for some income while doing a college degree, probably. ‘Lisa’ takes their orders, gestures for them to find a booth, and heads into the back.

Stiles discards his coat after sitting down, dropping it onto the booth beside him. Theo slides in opposite.

“What do you do?” Stiles finds himself asking. He hasn’t yet – has managed to avoid any real small talk with Theo ever since this whole thing started. Since the _point_ was that Stiles hadn’t been sure it was a good idea to leave Theo to his own devices, that might have been a bad move on his part. Hmm. Maybe just cowardice.

“Work, mostly,” Theo says. Makes sense. His lips quirk up at the corner, halfway to his usual smirk. “I work at the library, if you can believe it.”

Stiles pauses. Narrows his eyes. “Why?” He asks. Stiles spends a lot of time there, and he’s never seen him once.

“Decent money,” Theo says. “Not difficult. Good hours. Can do my education alongside it.”

Stiles didn’t realise he was taking any courses. Honestly, Stiles hadn’t thought about what Theo was up to at all. He’d mostly pretended the guy wasn’t here. A few other interns had asked about his ‘roommate’, which, one, not a roommate if you don’t share a room, and two, none of your business.

… Stiles has not exactly made himself many friends. It’s _just_ a little too dangerous. FBI. Law enforcement. Stiles, sharing an apartment with, oh look, a murderer.

Stiles, being a murderer. Among other things.

(Nobody really brought it up – but Stiles _had_ run over that guy who was shooting at Scott. And it wasn’t like anyone would just get up from being flung several feet by a fast-moving vehicle. It’s called vehicular homicide, and Stiles has committed that crime. Maybe you don’t count Donovan. Maybe you don’t count the Nogitsune’s casualties. Maybe you don’t count aiding and abetting Josh, throwing a Molotov at Peter, et cetera. But you can’t _not_ count that. That hunter died. Stiles still doesn’t know who it was. Theo doesn't know he did that, by the way, and it will be _staying_ that way. But - the only reason he doesn't know is nobody who saw it talks about it, and Stiles has this itching under his skin, like - one of these days - when he gets into an argument with someone, for some dumb fuck reason, it's going to come out, and everyone's going to know, and then Stiles really will be a -

Well.

His body count is higher than everyone else's, excluding two people. Theo. And Peter. Well, okay, three; Braeden's probably killed a few people, he thinks? And Chris has _definitely_ killed people. But anyway. He's killed more people than Lydia or Scott or Derek and yeah, than Malia, because frankly that wasn't even close to being her fault, plus she never actually went through with the plan to kill her mother. So. Yeah. Highest body count of the people who count from the incidents that count. 

And that just _sucks._ )

“Huh,” Stiles mutters. Theo shrugs. The food arrives, thankfully quick, and Stiles digs in to have an excuse not to speak.

* * *

See, it goes like this:

Theo has lied to him.

Stiles has not lied to Theo.

See, the thing is:

Sometimes the soulmate system fucks up. It’s like anything biological. Random mutation. Sometimes people end up soulmates with others of incompatible sexualities. Sometimes they live one-hundred years apart. Sometimes they’re related. Sometimes they live on opposite sides of the earth in rural areas and have zero languages in common and no chance at all, ever, of meeting. Sometimes, you’re born with a soulmate, who themselves in turn…

Is born without.

And sometimes –

External factors have an effect.

* * *

“What do you know about… soulmates?” Theo asks, one evening.

“You can’t lie to each other,” Stiles says. “But that’s bullshit. You can’t tell a direct lie, you couldn’t say the grass was purple or you hate the colour red or whatever if those things were untrue. But you _can_ say the grass is purple sarcastically, and if they can’t pick up on tone well? Lie successful. And you can just not tell them things, which is as effective as a lie can get. And then there’s telling bits and pieces of the truth, which can lead to a false conclusion, which is itself a lie, so, basically, I know that the ‘one rule’ is bullshit.” Stiles shrugs, looks away from the ceiling towards the chimera. “Why?”

“I’ve been reading about it,” Theo shrugs. “What else do you know?”

“Nothing more than the books can tell you,” Stiles says. “That sometimes it doesn’t work out? People can be born without a soulmate. Or one half can have the link when the other doesn’t. Or they’re incompatible on a multitude of levels, or any other number of little inconsistencies.”

“Do you think you’ve met yours?” Theo asks.

Stiles frowns at him, annoyed. “Bit of an invasive question, but fine.” He shrugs, again. “I’ve lied to everyone I’ve ever met,” Stiles says, in lieu of a proper answer.

“You just said that didn’t matter,” Theo says.

“Well, it does, in a way,” Stiles sighs. “Because I’ve lied to pretty much everyone I’ve ever met _directly._ At least once, as far as I know.”

“As far as you know?” Theo asks.

“Well,” Stiles says, “I admit, I haven’t kept track of random people I bump into in the aisles of supermarkets. Why are you asking about this, anyway?”

“Curiosity,” Theo says. “I think I used to have one.”

Stiles’ frown of annoyance deepens, turning more confused. “What?” He says.

“Heart transplants,” Theo laughs, tinged surprisingly a little bitter. “A heart transplant cuts the bond. If I had a soulmate, I lost that when I met the Doctors.”

Maybe it wasn’t really that surprising, Stiles allows. The bitterness. 

“Well that sort of seems unfair,” Stiles says. “When did they find that out?”

“A while ago,” Theo says.

“Oh,” Stiles doesn’t know what to say, really. “Is… there a way to fix it?”

“There are theories,” Theo allows, “But nothing solid. Far as we know, for now, no.”

“No-one in the world you can’t lie to, then,” Stiles says.

“There used to be,” Theo presses his lips together. He looks like he might say something else, but he doesn’t.

* * *

Years ago, Theo stopped talking to Stiles. All of a sudden, very quickly, without warning. Just disappeared from his life. Stiles had been – mad. His mother was dying. His father was on his way to alcoholism. It wasn’t a good time. A year or so later, and his mom would be dead, less than a year later, and she’d be slapping and scratching and shouting at him on a hospital rooftop, in the cold, dark, _bleak_ midwinter.

Stiles _had_ hated Theo, for a while. He was losing a lot of people at once – it was to be expected. The main problem was…

Stiles was the only one he avoided completely. Stiles supposes now that that was the Dread Doctors influence, in a sense. Theo had been Stiles’ friend, and he’d been Scott’s, in an entirely different sense, but he’d never really been _fond_ of Scott. So, it didn’t matter so much if they talked. No real attachment. Nothing that could keep him grounded, get him away from their reach.

Stiles’ father was the sheriff. That was dangerous. Stiles was his friend, that was dangerous.

Stiles was the only person he’d never lied to.

That was a liability.

And the doctors knew how to deal with liabilities.

* * *

It didn’t _have_ to be a heart, for the surgery. To make Theo a chimera, all they needed was some sort of transplant. Could have been a kidney. Tara could have lived. But there was symbolism, in the heart, and there was more than that, too. A stolen heart. A dead heart. A heart chilled by hypothermia. A cold, dead heart.

There was magic, in symbolism, and as in all things, there was a science in magic. A heart for a heart. Simple, efficient. Gets another link out of the way. For what they need, he can’t have personal ties.

So, in the end, a heart is the only choice. The only logical, sensible choice.

It kills two birds with one stone. Efficiency is their M.O.

* * *

Of course, all things frozen eventually thaw.

* * *

It starts with Hell.

Theo lives it, for months. The same thing, over and over, with Tara, and her heart. Her heart, forever, now and always and eternally _her heart,_ not his. Because when her heart was in Tara, she’d had a soulmate. When his heart was in Theo, he’d had one too. Take the hearts out, replace one with the other, and you confuse the system. You break the tenuous grasp of the soul of another, the same way in which death breaks the bond, the same way in which pure hate of the other person can break the bond. It’s fragile. And it’s sacred.

And it’s gone.

* * *

After hell, after the Wild Hunt, after the Anuke-Ite, Theo is left adrift. Half himself, half not. He _has_ changed; he had to. Hell gave him no other choice. But he chose the differences he’s made – he’s not _good._ Theo’s not sure he’s capable of it. But his heart, as stolen as it is, as dead as the person it belonged to remains, does function. He can take pain. He can care. Maybe it’s complicated, maybe it’s more difficult than it should be, maybe he doesn’t understand it and probably never will, because he can manipulate emotions, but he doesn’t know how to deal with them – there’s a lot of maybes.

But there’s this:

He doesn’t have a chance to speak to Stiles after the Wild Hunt. He doesn’t have one during the Anuke-Ite mess. He barely manages to catch Stiles before he leaves, and he wouldn’t need to lie in that conversation anyway, so there’s no way to test his theory.

And that’s all it is. Theo’s recollections of their childhood in this shitty town are vague at best. Did he lie then? He doesn’t know. He thinks about the way lies are defined, the boundaries of what does and does not count as one. When he asks Stiles later, he finds they came to the same conclusion: you can totally lie to your soulmate. You just can’t deny the truth directly.

‘You cannot lie to your soulmate’ is a simplification of something much, much, _much_ more complex. And Theo… he thinks he’s never going to quite get it. He’s seen accounts of people online, who’ve tried the same things Stiles tells him he has, offhandedly, and most of them complain about this itch under their skin, or a nauseous feeling in their stomach. It’s guilt, and it builds, and it’s all-encompassing, and if you leave it too long, you’ll end up just throwing yourself at your soulmate and confessing all your sins so that it doesn’t _hurt,_ anymore. It’s compulsion, nothing more, nothing less. If you’re a liar by nature, it seems you have an easier time of it, but not by much.

Theo thinks that – whatever the Doctors did – it didn’t just fuck with his end of the bond. If his theory is correct. It’s a reach in the dark. But he hated Scott, well and truly, and he hadn’t cared for anyone else any further than they were useful to him as tools, except.

Except.

One day, he thinks, ‘fuck it’, and he tells him.

“You know,” Theo says, “For the record – I meant it all,” He takes in Stiles’ expression, then clarifies, “I wanted you on my side. Out of everyone else – I’d have still counted it as a victory if I’d have gotten you.”

“You wanted to be an alpha,” Stiles said, dryly, “Power hungry – you _murdered_ your ‘betas’, excuse me for not believing that for one second.”

“I didn’t see you complaining when I killed Josh the first time,” Theo grouses, just to see his reaction. “And Tracey was worse than I was – but yeah. I _was_ power hungry. I wanted the strongest pack I could get, I wanted to be the strongest alpha I could be – and I wanted _you_ in that pack.”

“Well, that just tells me you have poor judgement, and I already knew _that_ ,” Stiles says.

What comes out of Theo’s mouth surprises them both.

“I think you’re the strongest out of all of them.”

They blink. Theo shrugs it off, but Stiles narrows his eyes at him, suspicious. “Is this flattery? What is this? What are you trying to accomplish?”

Theo shrugs and says, simply, honestly, “I just thought you should know,” He tilts his head. “That I meant it.”

His theory, he finds, is probably correct.

* * *

After the day where they awkwardly accidentally bump into each other in the daytime, they find similar things become a more regular occurrence.

There is a little-known fact about soulmates:

Eventually, the universe just gets _bored._

Theo had read about incidents happening – two people who’d known each other for ten years getting stuck in an elevator together for a day. Two long-term acquaintances getting snowed in at a gas stop. Two people constantly getting cast as the romantic leads in plays. A stewardess always, without fail, getting put on the same plane as her soulmate, and always, without fail, being the one to see him onboard.

Little stories like that. Theo starts to wonder. The jeep breaks down again, and it’s really struggling now – mechanic even seemed a little intimidated by the requirements for fixing it. And Stiles was _definitely_ intimidated by the price.

So, carpooling.

There was a gas leak in the apartment building, which once again shoved them unceremoniously into a shitty, small hotel room with nowhere near enough space between the beds. And then it started snowing, when December hit, and one day they woke up to the window being covered by the stuff. Theo was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to snow that hard in Virginia.

Turns out the front doors, and all other doors, have had the same treatment. There is, however, a fire escape on the side of the building, so they go upstairs and escape that way.

But still. Theo thinks – honestly, with complete certainty – that his little theory is correct.

And if that’s the case –

Well.

That makes things interesting.

“What are _you_ smirking about?” Stiles demands.

Theo considers him. “Nothing you should worry about,” He says, smirk widening.

Not a lie. Stiles scowled at him, and Theo’s face broke into a proper smile.

Theo wondered how creative the scenarios would get.

* * *

‘Creative’, Theo finds, turns out to be very _cliché_. Maybe the universe is also tired of coming up with new and interesting ways for it to force two people together. Maybe it’s just lazy.

On the way back to Beacon Hills for Christmas, they get stuck at a motel. Stiles’ jeep is still in the garage, and it’s Theo’s perfectly good Toyota that breaks down, this time. The two of them have to walk for about five minutes before they find the motel, at which point Theo calls for a tow truck for his car, and since it’s so late, they check in. The place is a little old, but not unpleasant – certainly nicer than a lot of other motels Theo’s seen or heard of.

“Least it’s not the Glen Capri,” Stiles mutters, as he drops his bag on the floor of the room. Two singles, with a reasonable amount of space between them. Stiles drops down onto the one closer to the door, listless from lethargy. It’s not a good time of day to try and contact anyone, so Theo discards his top, climbs under the covers of the bed next to the window, and figures they’ll just call someone once the sun’s up.

* * *

The sun rises, but it’s hard to tell through the snow covering the window. Stiles reads the headlines from a news article on his phone – freak snowstorm ravages interstate highway, careful if you’re travelling from Virginia to California, or something along those lines. Theo blinks blearily at the ceiling, then sighs in response.

“So we’re stuck?” He says. “By the looks of it,” Stiles grouses. Theo can’t help but feel a little glad – it’s not really like he wanted to go to Beacon Hills. Not like he wanted to return, _ever._ But some things you just have to do. Plus, Theo wasn’t entirely certain how the universe would take it if he’d refused to go along.

“We should have taken a plane,” Stiles sighs. Theo wonders if it would have crashed in the middle of nowhere if they had. Theo could probably survive that, and Stiles was – he’d died before, literally. Then been entirely erased from existence itself. The guy was… kind of like a cockroach. Nothing seemed to be able to get rid of him permanently.

“What with the snowstorm – might have crashed,” Theo pointed out. Stiles groaned in annoyance. “True,” He said. Theo looks at Stiles, turns his head onto it’s side. Stiles is staring up at the ceiling. He’s dropped his hoodie on the floor, remains lying there in his blood-red t-shirt and gray pants and gray socks. His hoodie was one Malia had stolen for a while – black and grey with a red stripe, white strings. They weren’t dating any more, but most of her wardrobe was still Stiles’ clothing. Theo wonders briefly how Scott feels about that – smelling his best friend on his girlfriend, or if the clothes no longer hold any remnant of Stiles at all.

It seems a somewhat ridiculous situation, and Theo knows Scott and Malia aren’t soulmates, because Scott’s soulmate is stuck in a desert in Mexico. Malia’s soulmate is out there, somewhere, maybe. Possibly. She could have been born without one, but Theo doesn’t think she was.

It’s just a thought, but sometimes two people, as one of the many flukes, are born with the same soulmate. But - it doesn’t really matter. Theo’s just bored enough to start thinking about it all.

* * *

The snowstorm persists. Repeats. The Motel, staffed by one family who live on-site, has enough provisions to soldier on through a year’s worth of them, so there’s no issue on that front. But being stuck inside and having to use old, rusty maintenance tunnels to move between buildings as the snow piles higher and higher is annoying, and potentially missing out on the chance to go home is worse.

Stiles is getting more and more antsy by the second. It’s a total white-out outside, and he’s not sure _why._ It doesn’t get like this here. Sure, Stiles has heard of freak weather occurrences like this – a lot of people associate it with particularly volatile situations regarding soulmates; people getting stuck inside because the air-con only works in one room and outside it’s like 200 degrees or something _stupid_ like that, and the whole block or town or city or entire goddamn state suffers for the lack of awareness from two (or more) individuals. It’s always the more complicated situations this happens for. And Stiles is a little…

They’re the only customers. Now, unless someone’s got a soulmate _within the family,_ which would be very gross and very unfortunate, _if_ this has _anything_ to do with soulmates or what have you, Stiles might be a little screwed.

Because he hasn’t bothered – once – to try _actively_ lying to Theo. Because, sure. He’s lied to him before. But not directly. _Misdirection._ Careful word choice. Omission. Half-truths. But never once did he try ‘the grass is blue.’ And Stiles –

He found it easier to tell Theo the truth than he found telling his _girlfriend._ His _best friend_ of a decade. Anyone else – he’d found it hard to find the words, and he’d certainly experienced the deep, uncomfortable dread that came from the idea of telling _anyone_ about how he’d felt seeing Donovan’s death.

But he’d told Theo.

Of all people, he'd told _Theo_.

* * *

The snowstorm cut out all signal, so the wifi, data, and TV channels didn’t work. The Donovan-Green-Stephens were a friendly group of people. Sarah was planning on going to College in Beacon Hills, which was something Stiles not-so-gently steered her away from, because he knew perhaps more than most how much a trap that place really is. The family kept making them join in on games of monopoly and light-hearted truth-or-dare, full meals three times a day, trying to keep everyone from dwelling on the fact the snow is probably up to the roof, by now, with no signs of stopping.

Sometimes Theo really fucking hates magic.

As it stands, Theo and Stiles are in the room they’d paid for. It’s nine at night, if the clocks are to be believed. Stiles smells very strongly of anxiety – and he’s always anxious, that’s part of his makeup, but he’s clearly worried. Plus, he doesn’t even like motels in the first place. This isn’t a good time for him, Theo thinks. Not that it is for anyone here, but Stiles might…

Stiles is pretty smart. It’s not like Theo’s the only one that knows the universe conspires to get its soulmates together. And it’s far, far more likely for – for this, plus the other things, plus the fact they can never find a decent hotel priced reasonably enough so they can get two rooms, or find a hotel with two singles that aren’t basically shoved together due to the cramped confines of the rooms. It’s – Stiles finding he has no work to do when Theo remembers he left something he needs in the apartment. It’s – no food in the fridge even though Theo could have _sworn_ Stiles filled it yesterday, so off to the diner they go. Lisa looks at them differently, after the first couple times, and Theo can see why. They live together. They don’t ever bring anyone else, and they don’t ever go without each other to the diner, because they only go when they need to, because there’s no food, because the universe is conspiring like it always does, with everyone. Stiles doesn’t bother getting changed, most days, and an FBI intern’s uniform is a tie, a crisp white shirt, and black slacks. Without the lanyard, which he always discards as soon as he’s off-site, it’s clearly professional, but it’s also kind of date-like, if you look at it the wrong way. A guy’s work suit and date suit are rarely different looking in any way, shape, or form, and it probably helps that Stiles tends to loosen the tie, undo the top button, and roll up his sleeves; more casual, more familiar, more comfortable. Stiles is animated when he talks, always has been, but he’s animated around Theo too, lately. Like the tension has bled out, and Stiles has just… gotten used to him. He’s as lively as with Scott, Malia, Lydia. Theo finds he appreciates it more than the long, stony silences. Stiles seems resigned every time he finds the fridge empty, and the cupboards barren, and the freezer filled only with one bag of ice cubes, but he seems less aggravated during the meal with each one that passes by. Theo finds when they start scowling too heavily Lisa intervenes with a refill or their bill, a charming smile and an anecdote that distracts Stiles from his anger and Theo from his frustration, and eventually it happens less. Exponential increase, as time goes on, and they get along better. Forced proximity, apparently, does sometimes help out.

“I do gotta say,” Lisa says, one evening, when Stiles is in the toilet, “I’m impressed by your perseverance.”

“My what?” Theo tilts his head, amused.

“You know,” Lisa shrugs, wipes down the counter. “Whatever caused the whole ‘lets glare at each other in silence’ for the first few weeks? You worked through it. You both… seem a lot happier, recently.”

Theo considers this. “In a way,” He allows. It’s not exactly happiness – but it’s a lack of anger and annoyance and frustration at every meal. It’s Stiles relaxing his guard. It’s Theo not pushing his buttons deliberately. It’s Stiles not bringing up their history every three seconds as a reason to loudly profess – well, he doesn’t profess hate. But he professes a certain distrust, a level of discomfort.

If Theo thinks about it – Stiles does a lot of avoiding the topic. Whenever Theo brings something up, Stiles turns suddenly evasive. And Theo supposes it’s not a sudden thing – Stiles’ evasiveness, because it’s _Stiles._ But it’s something to catalogue, nonetheless. Stiles will happily use examples of their history as ammunition – but he refuses plainly to _actually_ talk about it, and he balks full-stop at discussing anything close to being about the present.

“I guess that’s how soulmates work out, huh?” Lisa says, with a smile, and hands over the coffee Theo had asked for. He wanders back to the booth, and wonders if Stiles knows this is what Lisa thinks, or if he’s just being oblivious about the whole thing.

It wouldn’t surprise Theo very much. Stiles was selectively observant. If he didn’t want to see something – he wouldn’t.

* * *

Theo wakes up to the ring of a landline phone. He frowns.

"Hello?" He hears Stiles snap, voice clogged with sleep. "Oh, sorry. Wait, what? Seriously?" 

Stiles stands, walks over to the access, opens it, and peers inside. Theo leans on his arm to watch, a frown taking over his expression. Stiles smells of something close to dread.

"Flooded," Stiles says. " _Flooded? Fuck!"_

He throws the phone across the room; it smashes on the wall, his hands shake, and he backs up against the wall. "I _fucking hate motels,"_ Stiles says, through his teeth, as Theo swings his legs out of the bed and stands.

"Stiles," Theo says, uncertain. 

"Shut _the fuck up,"_ Stiles says, and Theo complies. The other young adult breathes in, and out, slow, controlled, eyes closed. His hands, very slowly, stop shaking.

So. 

They don't have the landline now, either. 

Theo walks over to the access, keeping an eye on Stiles as he opens it, peers inside the maintenance tunnels. 

Water. Deep - probably fills the whole network. What the fuck?"

"Pipes," Stiles says. "Leaking - burst, whatever. Plus, Melted snow, apparently. And _yet-"_ He storms over to the door, yanks it open, and gestures angrily at the wall of white stood in front of him. "Still here!"

Stiles is incensed beyond belief. This is... getting pretty silly. Theo was already annoyed, but he's - not really fond of the likelihood of Stiles having a panic attack. It increases each day the snow stays, stubbornly, outside. And if shit like this happens, well, said increase becomes exponential. There are two options here, and Theo's not fond of them; Stiles will punch him, or Stiles will stop breathing properly. Those are bad options - and he'd much rather the first to the latter.

"You know why it's happening," Theo says. "Right?"

Stiles spins and looks at him. His expression has turned unreadable, but his scent is angry - furious. "You have something to do with it?" Stiles demands, "What the fuck-"

"As much as you do," Theo says, and takes a step forward. Not to seem like a coward, Stiles matches him, less of a step and more an aggressive advance, but. Theo can work with that - he has before. Stiles' aggression has always been useful; it makes him reckless. Theo likes to be the only planner in the room, and that can only work here when Stiles is off-balance. Not that Theo doesn't like to think of Stiles as his equal, really - he'd wanted that originally, in a round-about way. Stiles on his side, working towards a common goal. Maybe that's all they need.

Common ground. 

"What the fuck are you insinuating, _Theo?"_ Stiles says. 

"You're smarter than that, Stiles," Theo says. "You don't need to ask me, you already know - you can't lie to me."

 _And I can't lie to you,_ Theo doesn't say, because there's a careful balance, here, and Theo has previously lied to Stiles, even if he can't, anymore. Stiles needs his aggressive aggravated emotions all worked out before they can - do what Theo's told normal people do in these situations. 

Talk. About things. 

"I can lie to you just fine, dickhead," Stiles says. "Then go on," Theo says. "Tell me that you hate me."

Stiles stiffens, fist clenching, and Theo sighs, mentally. He pushed a little too far a little too quickly, when Stiles was already on edge, half-way recovered from an almost panic attack and the urge to start punching the snow outside their door like that would help the situation, just from sheer frustration. 

Well. That's not to say Theo wasn't expecting the punch - but, God he does not believe in, what the hell has Stiles been _doing,_ lately?

Oh. That's right. Training to be an FBI Agent. 

Theo goes down like a bag of bricks. It hurts more than last time, but the sting is gone just as fast; supernatural healing works wonders. Spitting out blood is never fun, though. Theo can't help the grin, though, maniac as it may seem; it's that - almost pride he's always felt. Stiles, pure human, dropping a supernatural creature first punch. Not bad. 

Theo stands. 

"Better?" He asks. Stiles shoulders are moving quite dramatically with the breaths he's taking. His eyes are hard and angry, but his scent has calmed down. Less a pyre of loathing and more... like simmering frustration. 

"... you goaded me into that," Stiles concludes. 

Yep. Also; Theo wants to correct himself. Stiles is smart. But he's downright _dense._

Theo smirks. "In what way did me asking you to tell me you hate me is goading you into punching me?" He asks. 

Stiles stiffens again. "It's the answer," He says. "What do you _think_ punching you in the face means? All fucking sunshine and rainbows?"

"It means you don't hate me," Theo says, confident in this assessment. "It means you're angry about - whatever it is you _do_ feel - but that it isn't hatred." He pauses, and, fuck, why not? 

"It'd hurt more if you did," Theo adds. "Just say it. That you hate me. Punching me in the face? I'm a chimera, doesn't even leave a _scratch."_ Stiles pointedly looks at the blood on the carpet; Theo ignores him. "But telling me you hate me." Theo pauses. There's no compulsion, that's the thing. There's not compulsion not to lie to Stiles. He doesn't get the guilt when he tries to lie. The thing is - he's just not physically _capable_ of lying. He tries, and the words come out all jumbled in a way that makes them represent the truth. 

"What, it'd make you _sad?"_ Stiles mocks. 

"... Yeah," Theo frowns. He's not - entirely sure that's the right word. But he wouldn't like it. It would make him - kind of the _opposite_ of happy. 'Sad' might as well fit, as far as Theo's understanding of emotion goes. It's a - tenuous grasp at best, but.

He's been... trying. Since Tara. Knowing himself better is the first step, right? 

* * *

Well, shit. 

Stiles has to go and feel _bad_ about the expression on Theo's face, which is some form of conflicted, confused little frown, a furrow between the eyebrows. If it was anyone else you could potentially call the expression _upset._ The pulled-down corners of his mouth would help in that assessment. But it's Theo, and Stiles is pretty sure he's so emotionally stunted he wouldn't know what sadness felt like if you slapped him in the face with it, so, confused, conflicted. 

Stiles has to go and have _Theo Raeken, emotionally constipated murderer_ as his soul-fucking-mate. _Great._ Just-fucking-brilliant. 

Fucking.

A.

Stiles sighs, runs a hand down his face and walks over to his bed, drops onto it. He stares ahead. Theo-fucking-Raeken. Stiles Stilinski. Soul-fucking-mates. 

What dumbass fucking universe thought _that_ was a good idea?

Oh yeah. The same one that caused all the shit that's happened over the last, oh, few billion years. Gotcha. 

God fucking damn it.

God _fucking **damn it.**_

Stiles sighs, explosively. "I don't hate you," He tells the wall. 

Theo makes a noise. Stiles is not going to interpret the noise. It could be words. It could not. He's simply not going to pay enough attention to know what it is. It's Stiles' turn to talk, thank you.

To the wall. Stiles is telling this to the wall. He cannot bring himself to tell it to any particular person's face, one, because Stiles is terrible at telling the truth on a good day, two, this is a bad day, and three, it's _Theo-fucking-Raeken._

Stiles needs time to... process. Things that he's already processed.

Alright.

So.

Remember the 'lying to yourself' and 'ignoring problems until they eventually just go away on their own' problems that Stiles has? Remember those?

Yeah.

They've been having a _real workout_ for a little while now. 

Call him an unreliable narrator. You'd be right to. 

Stiles has known Theo is his soulmate for a very long time. 

"I don't hate you," Stiles tells the wall. "And we - should probably update the ground rules. I'm tired of spending a hundred dollars a week on food _I swear_ I already bought. I don't have that kind of money."

Stiles doesn't know how Theo reacts to that, because he is neither listening or looking. Any chuckles made did not happen, or were simply left unheard by Stiles' ears. 

"And, uh..."

God, fuck, damn it, Stiles has had a _girlfriend,_ he's had _multiple maybes,_ he's kissed more people than Scott has, Stiles should be _better at this than Theo goddamn Raeken._

"I know," Stiles gestures to the window. "I know why this is happening."

That's why he's so angry about it. God, fuck, damn it, he convinced Theo to come along so this shit _wouldn't happen,_ god fucking **damn it -**

Deep breaths, Stiles. Count to ten. 

"And, uh," Stiles scowls at the wall. Fuck, Theo Raeken, of _all people -_

"I don't - hate. You... being around," Stiles gestures, vaguely. _Wow,_ that was _great,_ really. Jesus.

Is it really that hard to just _say it?_

Yes. 

Yes it is. 

Three statements:

Stiles doesn't like Theo one whit.

Stiles doesn't really hate Theo, and never has.

Stiles is a very, very good liar, and the person who hears the most of his lies lives inside his own mind. 

That last one kind of makes the other two more dubious, huh? But he doesn't lie about _everything,_ not even to himself, so that gives one of them a pass. And the other, well. It's buried so deeply within - well, everything regarding this whole.... situation that it's - 

Kind of hard to tell.

If it's true. Or not. 

"We get along," Stiles says, finally. Three truths and a lie; pick the lie. First one wins every time. Stiles is kind of predictable when he plays the game; choose the lie first, craft it properly. Think _beforehand._ Throw all three out, quick succession, no hesitation. Let the lie blend into the truth until you can't tell what it is or isn't, anymore. Maybe add a fake hesitation in, before the last one, to psyche people out. That's sarcasm. Lie, truth, sarcasm (truth). Stiles' M.O. 

"And I know why that is," Stiles says. And it really has nothing to do with being soulmates. Lots of soulmates don't get along. That's the problem, when expectations lead you to believe the whole thing will be perfect from the word 'go'. Just 'cause the universe did all the hard work for you, skipping the buffet straight to the meal, picking all your favourite foods for you, doesn't mean you don't have to pay the bill. Hard work, patience. Understanding, care. All things normal relationships need, because a soulmate type deal is just a normal relationship with some mild strings attached and a hopefully easier start. 

Unless you're Stiles, of course.

Nothing ever goes easy, in his experience. Snowstorms? Shitty fanfic trope hotel rooms (yes, Stiles knows what that is; he's been on the internet since he was six, if he _hadn't_ found fandom it would have almost been impressive. More sad. But, you know, anyway -)? Food disappearing and the fucking amount of goddamn money he's spent on the stuff for it to just go _poof_ (yes, he _is_ angry about that)? Being forced into proximity with someone, no matter who they are? Not having a _choice?_

Even fucking Peter Hale gave Stiles a choice. Bite or no bite? But the universe doesn't care. Your soulmate's your soulmate, no returns even with receipts. And believe you me, Stiles has all those collected. Theo's done a lot of shit.

And, yet. Still.

They get along, don't they?

He hates to admit it - but they do. It's kind of unavoidable at this point. Lisa knows their orders, they have a usual table. Stiles has been, on more than on occasion, called 'possessive' and 'annoying' about the fact he hasn't let anyone from his internship meet Theo yet, which, fucking _no,_ that's a horrible idea, but the point _stands_ that -

People just kind of. Assume. So they must be doing _something_ that makes people kind of just. Assume. Right? Other than living together, obviously. And if _that_ is all it is, Stiles is going to have words with people about assuming that shit. Relationships can be entirely platonic, you know, and it's not like everyone who lives together are soulmates, Holy God, that's an annoying assumption. Stiles is kind of glad he and Scott never ended up living together during Uni like they'd originally planned, all those years ago - Stiles would have been angrier about the assumption than Scott would have been, for various reasons he's never wanted Scott to know. God, that would be _awkward._ They've got a whole good brotherly bond thing going on, have for a few years no. No stupid little childhood crushes need to be brought up, ever, thank you very much. 

Anyway. 

The _point,_ fuck, where's his Adderall? - the _point_ is that. Ugh. Stiles and Theo do get along. And there's probably other reasons for people's assumptions than just them living together. And Stiles is really _not known_ for forgiveness, like _at all,_ so... everyone just kind of - not finding it weird at all that Stiles let Theo tag along with him? That Stiles agreed to _live with him?_ That's kind of weird, in retrospect. Not even Malia put up a fuss, and she hates Theo almost as much as Stiles once claimed to. Yeah, maybe he put that on a bit thick. 

Anyway.

Not even Malia put up a fuss. Lydia had said it _made sense,_ which, he really should have thought about what she meant by that more, huh? Or, fuck, maybe he's reading too much into it. Maybe letting himself admit the whole thing properly, instead of just, kind of peripherally, is making him comb back over everything with an obsessive level of inspection, magnify to 3000% zoom. Forest for the trees. Maybe they just, thought - Theo proved himself, Stiles is giving him a chance, away from Beacon Hills, to grow. Maybe Scott thought Stiles had learnt from their conversation about second chances, which, amusingly enough, had been about Theo (Scott had brought up Derek; Stiles is still not quite certain why he did that) in the first place. 

Stiles has made himself aggravated. Did anyone _know?_ Could they _tell?_ Seriously, what is it that makes people who've met them _once_ or just heard Stiles _complain_ about Theo _know they're soulmates?_

Ugh. Crisis for another day.

"Why is that?" Theo asks. Shit, Stiles has just been staring at the wall in total silence. That's not what he meant to do. Fuck, close-calls (to panic attacks) always make him do this shit. _Especially_ if he's meds-free that day. 

Harley once linked him to Meds by Placebo. Either that girl was a comic fucking genius or just kind of mean. Stiles thought it was a bit of both. Damn, he hasn't thought about her in years. Stiles wonders what she's been up to. If she got the hell out of dodge. 

"We're soulmates, dipshit," Stiles tells the wall.

* * *

The snow melts. The tow truck had towed Theo's Toyota to the nearest safe location, and Sarah volunteered to drive them there. With a thanks and a goodbye, they left, and the drive was short. Another quickly given thanks and goodbye - and Sarah pressed her number, written on two scraps of paper, alongside the number of the motel, into their hands, because Stiles had not quite managed to convince her not to go to Beacon Hills for her college education and the _least_ she could have is someone who knows that shit like the back of their hand if something _weird_ happens - then, they were in Theo's car, driving the rest of the way to Beacon Hills. Luckily, they didn't have to double back for the car and all their shit that was inside of it. That would have been annoying. 

Beacon Hills looks weird as fuck, covered in sludge and snow. It never snows here, never has, not once. Stiles can remember cold Christmases, but not white ones. And yet, here they are. Not quite out of time. 23rd of December. 

They should have arrived two weeks ago. But that was neither here nor there. At least the snowstorm has stopped. It stopped between falling asleep after ignoring each other following the confession, and then another day of awkward conversation for the doorways and the roads to be cleared. Whatever the universe was conspiring about now, it seemed to have wanted them home in time for Christmas. Kind of nice of it, after all the bullshit it's put Stiles through over the years. But he's still mad, just for the record. Just glad not to be late. 

They arrive at Stiles' house around 4 pm. Malia's the welcoming party, which is perhaps the most awkward one they could have gotten. Stiles is given a bone-squeezing hug, Theo a steely stare. Well. Could have gone much worse. She could have ripped his throat out. 

"Glad you could make it," She smiles at Stiles. The fact they're still friends, after everything, really just goes to show how awesome she is and how much he never deserved her in the first place. But then, she gets annoyed about him talking about 'deserving' things - nobody deserves anything. _You get what you get. Good and bad._ That's her philosophy. Blunt, like everything else about her. 

Anyway. Malia and Scott didn't last very long, either. More time than he and Lydia had, but, not very long. Maybe a month or so. Scott's soulmate is still in the desert, and her's... well. They're out there, somewhere. She's taken to travelling the world - Stiles is sure Malia will find whoever it is, given time. 

Eventually everyone shows up, at random disjointed times, to greet them. Liam and the kids are the only ones who greet Theo with genuinely pleased smiles, instead of cautious civility. It doesn't bother Theo, and it doesn't bother Stiles. Stiles knows he'll be getting some cautious smiles of his own - more concerned - when the others find out about the whole soulbound to Theo Raeken thing, but... well, come to it when it comes to it. 

As for Theo, well, he's gonna be anticipating worse than cautious civility, Stiles figures. Getting all - ready and shit, for that. 

* * *


	6. 5: Play Your Part (Preferably Not.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean isn't certain of a lot of things. Other than that he's Dean, and that something really bad must have happened, because there's a scar on his back, big, like he got impaled on something. 
> 
> And the foggy memories. That too. 
> 
> Alt Summary:
> 
> Dean wakes up on April 30, 1973. It's the furthest back he exists in the timeline, after all. Well. Discounting March 5, 1861, but then, what would be the use of sending him back quite that far?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm halfway through s6 atm, so ignore any inconsistencies with stuff that occurs after that point in the series. I am spoiling myself just a little besides the obvious finale spoilers I've been bombarded with by Tumblr, but otherwise, I'm clear for the not-super-big stuff. So, uh, details are gonna be wishy-washy, which is why this isn't it's own independent story. Ignore my other independent story, that was just for fun; this is an idea i might revisit after I've watched the show (mostly) in full.

Dean isn't certain of a lot of things. Other than that he's Dean, and that something really bad must have happened, because there's a scar on his back, big, like he got impaled on something. 

And the foggy memories. That too. 

He wakes up in a... place. He's not sure what it is or where he is, but he wakes up there. It's empty, dusty, and underground. Well - when he says 'empty', he means 'void of people'; there's furniture and stuff. It's just quiet, undisturbed, like he's the only person who's stepped foot inside for at least a couple decades. 

Dean looks in the dusty mirror. He uses the corner of his jacket - brown leather - to wipe it clean. He's young-ish, he thinks. Mid twenties, at the latest. Brown-ish, red-ish blonde hair. Green-blue eyes, all depending on the way he tilts his head, the way the lighting in the dim bathroom falls on his features. He feels sort of like a chameleon, blending in with the things he surrounds himself with.

"I'm Dean Winchester," He tests out. His voice is deep, accented. He's from the south, by the sounds of it. Texas or Kansas or - hells, maybe even Iowa. Dean doesn't know. He's not even sure he knows what those places are, or where they are, or why he's thinking of them as 'the south', or what 'the south' even _is._

Dean's got know-how, in his brain. But not knowledge. No memories. Nada. 

It's a bit disconcerting. 

Dean leaves the bathroom. Leaves the underground, dusty place. He walks, for a while. Finds a car on the side of the road, abandoned. Dean hijacks it, and starts driving. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all she wrote, so far. Update this chapter as I go along.


	7. 6: Basically A Drabble, Oh Boy.

Arthur moved through the strange, dank bog, greaves sloshing with mud, underclothes waterlogged and new, shiny armour slick with dirt and grime. He'd lost his helmet when he lost his horse - the creatures out here were numerous and dangerous. There was a new gash on his cheek, and if he didn't clean it soon...

Lights flickered around him, small dots in the air, not enough to illuminate his path. The sky was dark and cloudy, despite the time of day, and the sun remained firmly hidden away. Fog rolled low to the ground, and on the horizon lightning flashed, but arthur still marched on.

He had a job to do. And as king, he had to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> found this on my hard drive. Idk man.


	8. 7: I don't even watch this show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Todoroki Shouto wakes up as Bakugou Katsuki.

Shouto sees flashes.

He's not sure what it is, really. He remembers - a villain attack, like any other. By this point in his life, he's gotten quite used to them. But maybe, he thinks, a little fuzzy, this one was different. He's not certain.

All he can see are flashes. Sound is... muffled? He supposes. Shouto tilts his head (internally - he's got no idea what his body is doing or even if it exists right now) and considers this. He must have gotten hit, he concludes. He remembers... projectiles. The Villain's quirk was - some kind of projectile. Bright. Flashes.

He'd been - he wasn't sure who he'd been with, Shouto recognises, distantly. Oh. Well, that's not good. Memory loss could point to some kind of head trauma, potentially quite problematic levels of brain damage.

Yes, that is not good at all.

Shouto looks around, or at least he thinks he does. Still muffled. Still flashes.

Shouto feels himself drift under.

* * *

Shouto wakes up. He remembers - something. It's foggy. Ah.

Drugs.

That would make sense.

He is in a hospital, after all.

His hands are bandaged, but when he takes a look under, at the palms, the skin is smooth and unblemished. And not his. Shouto takes pause.

It's small. More tanned than his own. Now that he takes proper stock, Shouto feels like either the world decided to multiply in size, or Shouto has shrunk quite considerably.

Dhouto debates the plausibility of both. The tanned hand let's the latter theory win out, but only just.

Shouto has seen this skin before, he thinks. In classrooms and Izuku's old photographs. He reaches up and tugs on a strand of hair, wincing at the sharp sting. He looks at it.

Blonde.

Hmm.

It appears he's woken up as Bakugou, Shouto notes, with mild distaste. A child Bakugou. Wonderful. In all likelihood, this means the explosive blonde in question is currently situated in Shouto's child form, which is just an unpleasant thought. The only person that should be in Shouto is Shouto. The feeling, he thinks, is most likely mutual. He expects Bakugou to storm through the door any moment, so Shouto takes inventory of himself, to prepare.

He feels... strangely antsy, he decides. Perhaps? It's hard to tell. Shouto feels perfectly normal, but that doesn't seem right. He should, by all accounts, feel entirely out of place. Perhaps it's a part of the Villan's quirk, he considers.

When the door opens, it is not Bakugou Katsuki that steps through. It is worse.

Bakugou Mitsuki strides in the room, looking incensed and unpleasant. This is somewhat expected of her - Mitsuki is much like her son, in many aspects. Though, Shouto supposes, Bakugou Katsuki is... more intense, from what he's seen of the two, but more genuine in his brand of niceness. Of the times Shouto has met Mitsuki, she has done some quite impressive 180ⁿ turns in attitude. And there are the little things - like Bakugou's comment, way back when, 'that's how I was raised,' or something like it, that makes the hairs on Shouto's neck stand on end.

He wonders why she's here, though. Surely she should be with her son? Unless he isn’t here, Shouto considers. Maybe the villain's quirk merged them, and every few days they're going to swap between Shouto-as-child-Bakugou and Katsuki-as-child-Shouto. Its plausible. Shouto has seen quirks do much stranger things.

Mitsuki comes to a halt next to him, on the left side of the bed.

"What the fuck were you thinking, brat?" She demands.

Cautiously, confusedly, Shouto says; "I don't know."

The slap is loud, and it hurts.

"Are you such a little bitch that you can't man up and admit what you did wrong?" She glares, incensed.

"I didn't do anything wrong," Slips from Shouto's mouth, defensive. "Didn't the doctors tell you what happened," _old hag_?, his brain finishes, automatically. Shouto frowns and refrains from antagonising Bakugou's mother.

She fists a hand in his hair, none-too-gentle, and leans forward, tugging his head up to look at her. “You don’t look like you’ve got a fucking concussion,” She says, “So there’s no fucking excuse. ‘Less they’ve got you hyped up on some unnecessary fucking meds, you’re _fine,”_ She dismisses, grabbing his arms and undoing his bandages. “See?” She looks frustrated. “No fucking damage, smooth as a baby’s bottom,” She slaps his arm, which Shouto realises quite suddenly aches rather painfully.

He hisses out, quietly, at the sharp sting. Mitsuki raises a blonde eybrow at him, crimson eyes angry. “If you’ve got fucking brain damage,” Mitsuki says, “Guess I have to fucking tell you what happened, eh?” She sits on the bed, the frame creaking as she settles down. Her grip on his arm is tight, still. “You were a weak piece of shit, is what happened. _Apparently_ some asshole kid antagonised you, and you lost control of your quirk before passing out,” She snorts, loudly. “How the fuck are you supposed to make this family proud if you’re _passing out_ from using your _goddamn quirk?”_

Ah, that was probably the flashes. No, wait, the flashes were likely from the battle, because –

No, Shouto stops himself. No, think about it. The flashes _were_ from the battle, but it was likely a poor idea to tell a child that he’d just been in a battle, Shouto considers, if he appears to have no recollection of the events. And it was true – Shouto’s brain shows him only brief images of bright lights and muffled sounds. He doesn’t remember what happened. And, as far as Mitsuki is likely aware, this is her son, younger. They probably don’t know the quirk has other effects than de-aging the people it hits, especially since it also seems to block off adult memories.

Shouto wonders if they brought Endeavour here, for his younger self. Well, hopefully not. That would have been a terrible idea. Surely his friends would have stopped that from happening?

Though, Shouto considers, he’s a little surprised that nobody else is here. But perhaps Mitsuki thinks it would be best for him – her son, that is - to see her first, before some random strangers?

Shouto, privately, thinks that’s also a terrible idea. Not the ‘before some random strangers’ thing, but the ‘seeing her first’ thing. Bakugou is not his mother’s biggest supporter, by any shot. Shouto admittedly does not hold much in the way of fondness for her, either. There are some things that remind him too much of his father about her, for that.

“It won’t happen again,” Shouto says, because it won’t; being attacked by the same villain and having him once more swap bodies with Bakugou, accidentally set off his quirk, and then pass out, would be quite the coincidence. And there’s potential for the fact they seem to have swapped bodies to be entirely accidental, some kind of fluke happenstance from being caught by the same blast. It’s plausible. Most of his theories are.

He was _so sure_ about All Might being Izuku’s father, though, so perhaps Shouto should consider other options, to be on the safe side.

There is always time-travel, though he dismisses this. Time Control quirks do and have existed, but so far in human history nobody has been able to go _back,_ only slow it down from their perspective, speed it up from their perspective, or pause it from their perspective. The latter are always the _worst_ to deal with, if they go the Villain route. Oh, and there are one or two that have been able to go forward, but that’s never been the most useful, except for that one person who got a surgery that didn’t exist in their time period.

Shouto’s seen a lot of this on his own, though he admits most of that was from Isuku’s ramblings. He knows a lot about Heroes and he’s very invested in breaking down quirks, which is quite useful in a lot of different situations.

“Damn fucking right it won’t,” Mitsuki says. “Or you won’t have to pass out, I’ll knock you out _myself.”_ She stands. “Get up, we’re leaving. Keeping you overnight is _complete rubbish;_ you’re _fine.”_

Shouto carefully extradites himself from the bed, stands on small, slightly shaky legs.

“Tch,” Mitsuki says, looking him over critically. “Stop fucking shaking. Here.” She reaches into her bag and grabs a nutrition bar. “Eat. You’re going to drink a gallon of fucking water when we get home, and if you even fucking _think_ about puking it up then you’re gonna have to drink a second one, so keep that shit down. You need to rehydrate, it was your biggest fucking explosion yet.” She grins, sharply. “And stop being so fucking _calm,_ brat, it’s fucking weird,” She ruffles his hair. “And you know you’ll pass out if your pressure gets too fucking low, where’d your fucking attitude go?”

Shouto frowns. He’s not entirely sure how to handle this. His first instinct is to simply tell her he’s not Katsuki, and that they should probably go find his own body, but looking at her face he thinks that would probably be a very poor idea, especially if she takes it the wrong way. Mitsuki is already perfectly capable of being physically violent towards her child – if Katsuki isn’t even present, then there would likely be nothing stopping her from throttling him, or using her own quirk on her son’s body. Plus, there’s the possibility, still, of time-travel, or the chance that Bakugou could be present in here because of some kind of merge brought on by the quirk hitting them at the same time, so Shouto is cautious to do anything dangerous to Katsuki’s child body’s health. Especially since he’s currently residing in it, and if he _did_ get Bakugou damaged in any way, then he’d have to deal with Bakugou’s reaction to that, which would be undoubtedly loud and unpleasant. _Especially_ if he managed to keep Shouto’s body perfectly harm-free.

“Nowhere, old hag,” He says, awkwardly. She scowls at him and ruffles his hair, nails catching on his scalp and strands getting caught in her ring. “Brat,” She says, and then yanks him by the arm out the room, and drags him all the way out of the hospital. Well, mostly. She gets stopped in the reception, bringing Shouto to a jerky halt, as she absently signs some forms. People look a little surprised at Shouto’s damage-free, bare arms, and Mitsuki brags about Katsuki’s quirk for a good five minutes before they leave. Calls every other quirk useless by way of saccharine tone and sweet words. Like Shouto has said; 180 heel-face turns, nearly every time he’s seen her.

The time travel theory is getting more and more likely as time passes. The fog clears from Shouto’s head, and he realises, past the throbbing of his forearms, that Mitsuki looks _far younger_ than she normally does. Mitsuki has aged gracefully, of course – she is, after all, a model – but there are signs of age in her features. Here, she is simply a young woman, with a kind of youthful glow. She’s in her 20s, by the looks of her, Shouto thinks, and then settles in to theorise. If it _is_ time travel, then it’s possible he woke up where Bakugou had been at this point in time. Which means – the flashes – that was likely him waking up in a body he didn’t know and wasn’t used to, still on high adrenaline from the battle he would likely have thought was still happening, and if someone made a potentially threatening move, with Shouto blindsided and confused, now the owner of a quirk he doesn’t know how to control, a quirk as utterly dangerous as Explosion…

Yes, Shouto thinks he knows what’s happened, now.

He’s been sent into a parallel universe. One where he was born Bakugou Katsuki and not Todoroki Shouto.

If he could just remember how the battle went…

But he cannot. No real point dwelling on that; Shouto is currently more interested in what _year_ it is.

He doesn’t feel _too_ young. No smaller than five, he thinks. No older than seven, at a push. Shouto inspects his face in the mirror. Definitely a young Bakugou, spiky blond hair, red eyes. Shouto’s resting expression look’s strangely blank on his face. He feels his lips twitch at the sight.

He feels twitchy.

Shouto thinks of what he knows about Explosion. Nitro-glycerine sweat. Hmm. If he sweats it from his palms, then… Shouto thinks it must travel through the bloodstream, somehow. And Nitro-glycerine is a toxic substance. The explosions would burn it all up, but if you so much as _touched_ anything with residue of Katsuki’s sweat on it, you could be in danger. But there’s the other side effects, too. Shouto doesn’t remember Katsuki ever having an infection, or a virus. He never once caught the common cold, or had a fever from fighting off anything with his immune system. Nothing can survive in the hostile ecosystem of Katsuki’s toxic blood. Katsuki’s body is entirely suited to his quirk; every single cell, micro-bacteria, everything, is adapted to high levels of nitro-glycerine exposure. His adrenaline levels are always through the roof. They found that out the hard way, they being people who knew Katsuki, because Bakugou himself already knew, but - yes, they found out the hard way when a quirk intended to calm someone down literally nearly killed him. Nitro-glycerine lowers blood pressure; so Bakugou is literally always on an adrenaline high. There’s other things. Shouto checks his senses, and he finds his hearing is… duller than he is used to. Not gone, but like he’s wearing heavy-duty ear protection. He could hear Mitsuki just fine, but he _knows_ she’s very loud, and now he wonders if Bakugou’s loudness is in response to what he himself can hear. The Doctors had sounded… not quite quiet, but lower than he’d have expected.

Well, at least he won’t have to worry too much about the sharpness of Bakugou’s explosions damaging his ears. He’s got built-in protection… though whether said protection is a good thing could be taken either way, Shouto considers. Not being able to hear as much isn’t great for a hero. He’ll have to find a way to compensate for that. Bakugo has _very_ good spatial awareness – he can fight blind and deaf, because Shouto realises now, he _has to._ The explosions he makes are always directly in his face – smoke clouds and fire aren’t exactly translucent, so being able to fight while not always being able to see your opponent is necessary. And hearing wise, well, that much is obvious, now. Hmm.

He’ll have to train that, Shouto decides. He’s not sure how long he’s going to be stuck here. Whether the quirk that sent him here is a permanent one or not. Some quirks are. They’re considered deadly quirks, because there’s no _actual_ proof you’re sending the person it hits anywhere. They just disappear, or get locked inside their own head, or something worse. The idea the victim is being ‘transported’ could be a self-delusion used by the attacker to make themselves feel better about murdering people. Or, well, at least less bad. Sometimes even _good,_ which does, in fact, disturb Shouto quite greatly.

“Home sweet home,” Mitsuki mutters, rolling her eyes.

Shouto lets himself out of the car. He’d been sat in the front, staring at the dash, carefully keeping quiet; Mitsuki had appeared to appreciate the effort, because she didn’t deign to scowl at him on the way inside. “Get yourself a drink, brat,” She says, and disappears upstairs.

Shouto finds a glass and pours himself some water from the tap. He drinks it, and then, still feeling thirsty, drinks another. He fills a third just to have, and awkwardly leaves the kitchen.

“Katsuki,” Bakugo Masaru is sat in the living room. Shouto watches him turn a page in his newspaper, eyes not bothering to glance up at his son. “Did you behave for your mother?” He asks.

“Yes,” Shouto says, cautiously.

“That’s a good boy,” Masaru nods, absently. “What was the damage?” He asks.

“Some… memory loss,” Shouto admits.

“Hmm.” Masaru glances up. “Do you remember the way to school?”

Ah.

Hmm.

… Shouto can admit he’s not sure if it’s normal for a five-to-seven year old to be taking themselves to school. The problem stands that, either way, he’s expected to do so… and he’s not Katsuki. He has no idea where the other Hero went to middle school, let alone before that.

Masaru sighs at his lack of an immediate answer. “I’ll ask Inko to take you tomorrow.”

Well, at least there was that.

“Okay,” Shouto says. Masaru frowns at him.

“You’re being awfully compliant,” He says. “Good. _Try_ not to make a scene at dinner, okay? We’re having over some business partners. A new line is coming up, and we’re thinking of expanding.”

Ah, right. Shouto vaguely remembers that Bakugo’s father is a designer, isn’t he?

“Alright,” Shouto says, cautiously.

“Go to your room,” Masaru says, returning to his newspaper. “And try not to blow up the door, we just got it replaced…”

“Replaced?” Shouto asks.

Masaru shrugs one shoulder. “Your mother felt like a change in décor. Plus, the locks stuck on the old doors, remember?”

Right.

No, of course, but Katsuki should know that.

“Maybe there really was some brain damage,” Masaru considers, looking at him. “Did they want to keep you overnight?” Masaru looks him over. “You look fine… hmm.” He goes back to his newspaper. “Well, if Mitsuki thought it was alright for you to come home, I see no reason to make a fuss.”

Shouto nods, awkwardly. That seems to be it, the turn of a page a tacit dismissal, and so he turns around, goes into the hallway, and walks upstairs.

Now, to figure out which room is Bakugou’s. It’s a wealthy home, Shouto can tell, which just means there’s more doors to find the wrong room behind. He gets it right on the third try, and thankfully doesn’t accidentally run into Mitsuki in the process of finding…

Well, Shouto wasn’t sure what he was expecting. It’s decorated in much the same was as the rest of the house, but there’s a couple hero posters and a few figurines here and there, mostly of All Might. A school bag on the floor, a wardrobe. A desk busy with homework, though it’s neatly ordered on the wooden surface. The room isn’t messy, in any way. There’s a digital alarm on his nightstand.

The window looks onto the street. Izuku lives nearby, somewhere. Shouto’s a bit miffed Izuku’s father is already gone at this point. He’d like confirmation that it really isn’t All Might, because admittedly he still has his doubts on that.

It’s just his Quirk. His Quirk doesn’t make any _sense,_ coming from his parents. And Izuku is not the best liar, rather terrible at keeping secrets – there is _something_ going on there.

Well, Shouto supposes he’ll just have to keep an eye on it.

Shouto turns to the bookbag. If this _is_ temporary, Bakugou would never forgive him for slacking off in this parallel dimension, because that would count as Katsuki slacking off, and he _never_ does anything like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also yeah, Katsuki's currently Shouto, oh dear god, there's a feral gremlin with a grudge loose in the Todoroki household, Endeavour better fucking Watch Out 
> 
> but yeah I don't even watch this show, like I can get away with 13rw fanfic bc i've watched like 3 episodes of it but I've. Only ever consumed fan content for MHA, WHOOPS 
> 
> also, yeah, uh, i'm a sucker for time travel, Shouto would assume it was only him sent into this 'parallel universe' (it is, most likely, a separate universe from their own, so I Can Make Changes and Shouto gets real smug about one of his theories Being Right) and that Bakugou got sent into his own, ergo they only meet when they join UA and it takes One Second for them to realise they're both stuck here as each other because like, it's Shouto in Katsuki's body with Katsuki's instincts but he's still. Shouto, same for the other way around, so the way they act is kind of a weird blend, also I was thinking there'd end up being like a body swap quirk or something? That swaps them and they just. Plain refuse to swap back (because obviously they're now in the right body) and Aizawa gets a Really Bad Headache from these problem children. They do eventually figure out the body swap quirk lets them swap whenever and then they use this To Cause More Problems, also they end up getting each other's childhood trauma's so that's fun
> 
> Oh and also, Katsuki got put in four year old Shouto's body, so he's actually been here for a few years already, since technically Shouto got hit a few seconds later than Katsuki did (and yeah, it was a quirk, they literally just. Fucking vanished in their old universe and there is no way to get them back, that's horrendous why do I do these things, their poor friends)
> 
> So yeah that's not fun   
> And there's been an angry little bastard child loose in the Todoroki household for like three years Oh No   
> (yes, he has nearly burned the house down multiple times, it would be fucking funny if Endeavour's house caught fire, he made sure only he was home at the time because Bakugou's not a total dick)   
> Oh also Katsuki Has Plans for Touya.   
> (Oh no)   
> Look if Katsuki had the chance to change things he'd do what he always does: Go Big Or Go Die Because Fuck You, Do Your Damned Best Or Don't Even Bother Existing   
> Shouto's a bit more. Shouto about it.   
> Also: Oh God, Our Friends Are Children.
> 
> I'd say more but i'm. You know like not lored up enough on MHA to do so 
> 
> (I'm tempted to make AFO Izuku's dad in this and for Shouto to be Very Right About That Oh No, Why, Katsuki owes him a week's supply of cold soba)  
> (Also tempted to make Grape Balls fail the ball throw and get expelled and for Shinsou to join Class A after the festival because I don't want to write sexual harassment)   
> (I mean, all of this is hypothetical of course, I'm sure I'll probably never continue this a;lkjg;alksgj oh welllll)  
> (Idk this'd probably end up todobaku bc they're the only people of the same adult-memories-adolescent-brains thing and it'd be weird to pair them with any one else given the whole Our Friends Are Children thing (they neglect to remember that they are also, currently, about 14. It's the extra decade or so of memories that kind of fuck with perspective on that little fact)  
> (and yeah when I say they get each other's childhood trauma i'm including their teenage years in that, buckle up boys I'm so sorry)   
> (Also I really don't like Mitsuki, miss me with that shit I /hate/ her, like just bc she's a woman doesn't mean she's not abusive, like if you hate Endeavour you should hate Mitsuki too, also Masaru is neglectful so he's also abusive in his own right and therefore I Don't Like Him)   
> (Also this would borrow a bunch of headcanons from sif because like I said, I've not watched the show/read the manga, so like. Need that meta shit from someone else)   
> (Also sif's writing/aus and stuff are great)  
> (that's all)  
> (we're done now)


End file.
